Eyes on the Prey
by springinkerl
Summary: No one is born a hero, and the ways of the gods are dark and recondite. When the fate of the world is tied to the fate of a single woman, she will need help to fulfil her destiny and a reason to fight for. But to form bonds can be dangerous, and when they break and life doesn't seem to be worth living any more, she may wish the world may end once and for all. F!Dovahkiin/Farkas
1. Prologue

This is a rewrite/republish of something I did last year as an experiment on Tumblr. Short drabbles and scenes about the adventures of my Dovahkiin somehow turned into a story with a life of its own, sometimes barely resembling the original events from the game any more. It was long before, and after some fleshing out, filling gaps and polishing it's become even longer.  
Will contain the main quest, lots of Companions (though not many Companion quests), some daedra, many sidequests, fluff, angst, politics and humour.

Disclaimer: Skyrim is Bethesda's.

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**The Child**

There was nothing special about them. A family like thousands of others, her Dad a hunter in service of the Jarl of Falkreath, her Ma gathering and selling alchemy ingredients and tilling the patch of land they owned. She had a twin sister and a little brother, only a newborn, spending his time tied into a scarf to the back of their mother. The shock of black hair stood spiky into all directions, brown eyes poking out of his shelter. When she bent over too fast, he chortled with glee.

They were poor, but she wasn't aware of it. Sometimes they were hungry, but never for long. Perhaps their parents starved for them, but if they did, they never let their children know. They had food, they had it warm when they froze and shelter from the dangers of the wilderness. And so much more.

They had each other. Their parents gave them everything they could, but most of all they gave them the freedom to learn and to experience the world, solace when they got hurt and sustenance for their curious minds. It wasn't a formal education, but they were taught the land and how to live from it, hunting and the essential skills to survive in this harsh land with endless winters and short, cool summers. And their parents told them the stories they had already heard from their own, history and legends alike, and they learned from them too.

They learned that they belonged to no one but to themselves, that they could never be forced into a life they didn't want, that they were free and strong and independent. Their parents taught them the pride and confidence to be able to take care of themselves, and their sisterhood taught them the ability to trust and to rely on someone else.

Her sister was her image, her match, her counterpart and mirror. Only with her did she feel whole. Inseparable, two bodies and two minds that complemented each other. Together, they knew, they could conquer the world.

They were so normal, and they were so happy. Like thousands of others, but this happiness was hers alone, even if she wasn't aware of it. It was everything she had, safety and joy, the contentment of a full belly and the love of her family. The knowledge where she belonged and with whom she belonged. This safety carved itself into her being, never to be forgotten.

The way it ended was nothing special either, in this land harsh land devastated by war, where people didn't care any more if what they took was theirs and if others had to die for them to survive. It ended in her tenth summer, and it ended in a rush of blood, in the triumphant yells of the outlaws that ambushed the cottage in the small glade, in the screams of her mother and her sister. It ended in a tangle of limbs, dead flesh clawed into each other – her mother with an arrow through her throat, the tiny face of the newborn still contorted in glee when she fell over, the back of his skull crushed by a mace, black hair glistening with red. She didn't see her father die but she heard his dying scream, breaking off suddenly with a choked gurgle.

Her sister saved her, by her side like she had always been, sheltering her even in death. They tried to flee, together and hand in hand, but she fell when her sister slumped against her, hit by an arrow. She fell and felt something break, felt the weight of a body on hers, heard the screams of agony ringing through her ears. Another arrow pinned the corpse to her living flesh, and the world went black around her.

When she woke, she was surprised that she still breathed. Their blood pooled in a puddle around her, her sister's as much as her own. She smelled the sharp stench of copper that decayed into the foul odour of putrefaction as the hours went by.

**The Orphan**

Perhaps they saw the smoke of the burning cottage or heard the frantic screeches of the cattle, perhaps they just passed by chance. But they found her between the devastation, the fire and the corpses, withered throat not even able to whimper any more, a patrol of Imperial soldiers, and they took her with them. The surgeon made her drunk, against the thirst as well as against the pain, gave her a piece of bark to bite on and and removed the arrow from her flesh. He patted her cheek with a false grin. "'t will hardly leave a scar, pretty," he mumbled. The foul liquid they forced her to drink made her warm and numb inside.

But when she woke screaming, with the stench of fresh blood and burning flesh in her nose and a sound that was a lullaby as much as a dying scream filling her ears, they cursed her for disturbing their mindless routine and the dangers her cries could stir out here in the wilds. Only one of them shared his water skin with her, his hands stroking soothingly over her hair. When they decided to leave her behind, an injured child only a burden, he was the only one who rose an objection.

"We can't leave her behind now," he said, "and we go to Riften anyway." She didn't know what it meant and was too tired to feel thankfulness. But they were soldiers, and allowing her to stay with them didn't mean they'd consider her needs. They forced her to walk behind their lines until she stumbled with fatigue and pain, she drank from the creeks they crossed and scraped the burnt remains of their meals out of their iron pans, but in the nights she was allowed to curl together at the fire, and sometimes one of them remembered to throw a blanket over her.

But it was rare that one of them addressed her, and when they did they didn't know what to say. She didn't either. She was alone and withdrew back into herself, because she had nowhere else to go. It was the loneliness of a child whose childhood had ended all too sudden, and she forgot to cry, forgot the words that would describe her fate when nobody spoke to her, nobody asked what had happened and what she had lost.

She didn't look back when the doors of the Riften orphanage closed behind her, and she still didn't speak when the man came and took her with him, only weeks later. He came from the other side of the mountains, exotic and wealthy, and the scrutiny with which he inspected her, a scrawny child in a threadbare smock, pierced into her core and let the small scar in her abdomen tingle with fear and disgust.

But no child of ten had control over its fate, he took her with him over the mountains from Riften to Cheydinhal, and she became the lowest maid in the house of a noble.

At first, she only had to work, and it provided her with a strange kind of comfort. She was no child any more, but she had always had to work if she wanted to eat, and it was nothing new to her. She fulfilled her duties the best she could, quiet and calm. Only when she felt his eyes on her she recoiled, but she learned to obey his orders that were given solely to force her into compliance, and she learned to call him master.

When she had proven her servitude, she had to learn. The education she got was widespread and thorough, reading and writing, the history of the empire, data, numbers and facts. She learned about religion and philosophy and about the cultures of all the different people her master called guests and friends. She learned not only to set, but to use a dozen different kinds of cutlery, to dance and to converse about everything and nothing. And she learned not to be afraid of strangers, to be kind, attentive and obliging no matter what happened.

She learned to be good company.

Sometimes the cook gave her a look full of pity when she cleansed her hands and left the kitchen to attend her lessons. But she liked these lessons with all the other girls, she liked to learn about all the things she'd never see and never do herself. She never asked why she was taught.

**The Whore**

It was a glorious night, hundreds of candles spreading their golden light from crystalline chandeliers and silver holders on the tables that were laden with food and drink, luxurious tableware filled, emptied, filled again and abandoned. Bards were playing on stages and in every corner, people feasting, drinking and singing. The huge ballroom of the estate was filled to the brim, couples swaying in elegant circles to the music, changing partners, laughing, separating and coming together again. Other rooms were filled with the concentrated silence of card players who shoved huge piles of gold back and forth, dimly lit niches were occupied by people clinging to each other, often more than just a couple. It was a feast like many others she had served in the last three years, clad in uniform, eyes lowered, invisible like a shadow, platters of delicacies and goblets filled with exquisite wine or rare liquors more important than the hands that brought them. But she felt eyes on her, and she felt selfconscious, and when her master ordered her to take one of his guests to his room, a fat old man in a stained brocade jacket with a greasy moustache and a false smile, fear and disgust let a shiver run down her spine.

She had heard the other girls talk. She didn't understand all of it, but enough to know that she was no child any more. It didn't matter that she still felt like a child and that she didn't know anything.

When the man ripped the silver buttons from her livery, pushed her onto the mattress and weltered over her with a grunt that sounded to her as if he was in pain, hot flesh burying her, wobbly and soft everywhere but in one place against her thigh, a voice nearly forgotten wailed through her dazed mind, the instructions of her father.

"If it's a woman, go for her throat. If it's a man, go for his groin. Slash and pierce if you have a weapon, squeeze if you don't."

She was lithe and agile, and perhaps he mistook her writhing for excitement. But she squeezed with everything she had, and his scream released her.

She was locked away, unchained and unharmed, fed and warm but never alone, and they didn't let her sleep any more. She was cut off from the cycles of day and night, learned to hate the light that burnt her eyes out and the music they tortured her with, the people talking to her, keeping her awake, with their deafening breathing, their presence and their touches that weren't intended to hurt. They hurt regardless, disgusting and intrusive. After one week she couldn't distinguish them any more, she cried and they laughed at her, and when someone wiped the sweat from her brows and her neck and fingertips wandered down her spine in a caress like a butterfly, she screamed and pleaded for help, her mind dazed, unable to withdraw from their attentions.

Her mother answered her plea to be saved from the songs, the smiles and the touches, for safety and darkness and sleep. She had always been there, she had always kept her safe, and now she appeared, a lullaby bubbling out of the hole in her throat. Her arms were stretched out wide, ready to take her in, ready to give her the shelter she needed so desperately. She had always taken care of her, and she had always kept her safe.

She fled into these arms, dead eyes looking at her with a smile full of love, the crushed head of the newborn resting on her shoulder. It was the only smile that was real, and she longed for it, longed for these arms to close around her, for these bloodsmeared hands to stroke her back and erase the memory of touches that were so different, that burnt on her skin.

But her mother had left her already once, and now she left her again, forced away by another song and another embrace, the lullaby fading before she could find shelter in her dreams. She screamed and fought and pleaded to her to stay, but even her mother left her alone.

She realised that the only shelter she'd find was the one in herself. Everybody who could keep her safe was gone. But there was no escape, not even into the refuge of her own mind as they used subtle pain and tantalising caresses on her body that made every nerve ending ache. In the end, her gaze lost its fear and wilfulness, turned into mindless humility instead.

When her master came and showed her what to do, what was expected of her, she finally obeyed again. Sleep was her reward, and her hair was white when she awoke.

From now on she obeyed, and she only spoke when she had to. Many more feasts, many more men, sometimes more than one, sometimes men and women and always her master. She stopped to wear the servant's uniform and was clad in dresses that were too expensive for the bit of fabric they were made of, fine silk exposing her body, her hair braided into intricate styles and adorned with glittering jewellery. She was only another jewel, an exceptional attraction with her white hair, white skin and deep blue eyes, presented like an expensive wine, ready to be consumed. It was always her master who consigned her and handed her over to his guests like a gift.

It never stopped to hurt and it didn't get easier, but she obeyed and she served, always, no matter what they did, no matter what they made her do. There was no escape, and her mind was numb and empty.

She became older, no child any more and the traces of the life she lived already visible in her face. There were other girls like her, forlornness in their faces and glimpses of hope when they started to wear the livery again, with lowered heads, jewellery and make-up gone. Or their bodies started to swell with unwanted progeny, forced upon them, and they vanished from the household, without a trace, never to be spoken of again, leaving behind only a subtle promise.

But she never dared to hope, and she stayed. Her master still fancied her, she was the jewel in the crown of his decadence, spared for those occasions when her experience, her servitude and the air of detachment that always wafted around her were required.

She was hollow and numb, a bottomless vessel for their desires and demands. Obedience and inurement buried what her parents had taught her: that she was free, that she was strong, and that she belonged to noone.

**The Soldier**

When he catched her watching the guards and the horses in the courtyard, her fists clenched as if she held a weapon and her body twitching in an imitation of the spar below her balcony, he fulfilled her wish. He always fulfilled her wishes… or what he thought her wishes were, and she never gave him reason not to. She was his, after all.

At first it was not much more than a game, exercises he allowed her to keep her in shape. It wasn't trust when he told the captain of his guard to hand her a light cuirass and a simple iron mace and to instruct her, and he watched her amused when she faced the straw puppet, teeth clenched and running with sweat, knowing that behind the heavy doors the lavender fragranced bath waited for her and the oils and salves that kept her skin smooth, ready for the hands of a stranger. He knew she wouldn't fight him, and that he had found only another way to make use of her. She was too used to obey, never spoke, never argued, lived to serve.

He never let her go out and fight real threats, brigands and wildlife, but she learned through her training, motions and reflexes her muscles had never completely forgotten coming back, and she welcomed the strain and the aches of the exertion. She trained all on her own, despised by those she tried to mimic. Only during the rare opportunities when nobody watched over her and a challenge full of disdain and contempt was spoken, spat into her face, she had a living opponent. She never refused the spar because she never learned more than on these occasions, and the open revulsion of the guards, of the men and women that looked like her in their homogenous gear didn't reach her. Neither the disgust they didn't hide when she wore her armour – "his puppet," they hissed behind her back, "his whore," – nor the scorn when they watched her with hungry eyes, whirling over the dance floor in the arms of a stranger while they had to guard the doors in uncomfortable uniforms.

When she went through the movements against her own shadow or against the lifeless dummy, she was alone with herself, emptied her mind into a soothing loneliness, uncaring for watchful eyes, and gradually she deepened the knowledge left from the lessons of her father, became stronger than she should be and as skilled as this kind of training could make her. Sometimes he praised her skill, like he praised a new poem or a good wine, and she knew she was allowed to protect herself because she was his and because nobody else was there who would do it for her.

It was an evening in late spring like so many others, the sun tinting the sky in shades of pink and purple, Secunda rising over the horizon. She knew she had to get in and ready for dinner, she was expected to entertain his guests, but she was reluctant to move. Just a few minutes for herself. She leant against the outer wall that had been the border of her world as long as she could remember.

The young man was new to the troops, a kinsman of hers from Bruma. His pat on her back made her startle, but he didn't realise it. She wasn't allowed to speak with him unattended – she knew it, and he should have known it too.

But he was jovial and friendly, chatting away about the wealth of their master and the prosperity of his business, his kindness and generosity. And he asked her how it was to live as the master's fancy, not to have to live in the barracks, to have his favour and to be allowed to attend the glittering, luxurious nightlife in the estate.

He didn't expect her to answer, too entangled in his own torrent of words and enthusiasm, but his curious, innocent envy broke with sudden force through her shell. He flinched from her when lifeless blue eyes suddenly flared with anger and something of which he only realised much later that it was sadness.

He dared to ask, he dared to be envious, and a yearning welled up in her like a flash that felt strangely familiar. A longing for the lessons she once learned, a longing for remembrance. The faint memory of a different closeness that wasn't stained by demands, of lessons that were aimed to make her stronger for herself instead to make her a better servant. Once she had been safe, and once she knew where she belonged.

**The Fugitive**

She knocked him out, discarded her armour and fled. Purposeless, aimless… but northwards, where once there had been a home, driven by a relentless force that pulled her forwards. When she couldn't cross the border to her homeland, she trecked westwards through the mountains, lived off the land in search for another way. She wanted to go home where no home was left, but she needed a destination, something to start. And she knew nothing but the endless pine forests around the little village.

In the end, she was stopped again during another fruitless attempt to pass the border, was caught in a fight that was not hers, her mace crushing the skull of a man who approached her with a drawn blade and the lewd grin of a predator. He was the first man she ever killed, but it didn't help her, soldiers clad in blue and red ensuring that no one left the battle ground. When the fighting was done she was made a prisoner again, and when she didn't speak and didn't tell the officer her name, she was sent to the block with all the others. For a moment she envied the thief who tried to flee and died fast with an arrow in his back.

It didn't matter any more. She knew the little village where she was brought, and it gave her a strange sense of relief – not because she had reached her homeland, but because she had left Cyrodiil behind, and with it her past. One of the men said that in the hour of death, a Nord's last thoughts should be of home, and this was the only moment that a sting of regret shot through her. She didn't have a home, but in this moment of clarity she remembered what she once had, so many years ago. She remembered the warmth of a fire that was more than just the heat of burning wood, she remembered the love in the eyes of her mother, the closeness of her sister when they cuddled under one blanket at night, whispering and giggling of dreams they had and things they'd do, the pride of her father when he presented her with her first bow and dagger. Finally she remembered what had been only a faded memory, the feeling to belong somewhere, and this memory was a last gift she caged in her heart. With this memory she became a person instead of a nameless prisoner, someone with a past even if she didn't have a future, someone unique. It was something she could take with her.

The moment her temple touched the stone, slippery and warm from the blood of those who had died before her, the scent of fear and death in her nose, she felt a calmness not even the rising axe of the headsman could disturb. She hadn't listened to the solemn words of the priestess before and she didn't pray now.

She didn't put her soul into the hands of a deity. Her soul was hers alone. She would never serve again, never obey, never submit.


	2. Free

The shadow looming on top of the tower behind the headsman was of the blackest black I had ever seen. It moved, and its roar echoed through the air, but beneath the flaps of its wings and the writhing of its neck it was only impenetrable darkness. The creature was a mass of scales and spikes that didn't only not reflect the light of the sun, it seemed to swallow it, and it reeked of molten iron and rotten flesh. And it brought destruction and death. The headsman was the first who fell to its roaring blast of fire.

Someone jerked me up, pulling at my bound wrists and drewing me with him, one of my fellow prisoners, fear written into his face. I didn't know what he was afraid of – we would die anyway, did it really matter to what? There was chaos around us, dead bodies and flames, people with burning hair and flailing limbs, buildings ablaze, screams and yells and dying whimpers, and above all that the heavy flapping of wings, the darkness of the creature, this stench I would never forget and the earsplitting shrieks and roars that released devastation over the village. Its screams nearly sounded like words, sinister and dark, a screeching sound that ached in my bones. The soldier in his blue armour pulled me with him into the shelter of walls where he cut the ropes that bound me and handed me the dagger he had used. More people were there, more soldiers, a bearded man in an expensive cloak who gave commands. I had seen him before, he sat on the same carriage as I, and he had been gagged.

"Dragon," I heard the incredulous whisper over and over again, "is that really a dragon?"

Dragons were only a legend.

"Legends don't burn down villages," the bearded man said sternly, but helpless fury seeped from his voice when he peeked out of the sheltering tower.

We escaped through underground tunnels, my saviour and I, fought and killed the soldiers of the Legion who were still on duty and eager to stop us, stupid, mindless discipline in light of the devastation above, and his face twisted in disgust when I dispatched one of the corpses of its armour, took bow, quiver and sword with me. But I was trained in survival and would take what I needed, and his loyalties meant nothing to me.

He tried to tell me what the Stormcloaks were and that his leader, the man we had seen in the tower, was the future High King of Skyrim. And he asked who I was, where I came from and why I was caught so close to the border. Didn't everybody know that it was shut down due to the civil war in Skyrim?

I knew of a war in the province, had heard people talking about it, the complacent, comfortable talk of men pleased over the rising prices for iron, steel, weapons and armour and concerned about the rising insecurity on the merchant routes. But it didn't concern me, not more than the dragon, and I let him talk. I just wanted to go home.

He left me alone when I didn't answer his questions. We fought side by side with the discipline of soldiers, gathered and shared supplies when we found them, saved each other's lives, and I felt his gaze on me. It was a look of respect. He didn't care if I was man or woman, and I felt selfconscious under his scrutiny. It was a long escape through the darkness under the destroyed village and the keep, through prisons and torture chambers, through collapsed tunnels and an underground stream, a spider nest and a bear den, and despite my exhaustion the dangers and fights provided a strange comfort. It was new to me, to be able to do something to keep myself alive, and when the bear towered above me, his claws scratching over the iron plate I wore, I felt a glimpse of freedom. No thought was spent on what would come later.

Daylight greeted us when the cave finally opened to a mountainsite, seemingly friendly and peaceful. A treacherous peace it was though, the looming shadow of the black creature still circling above us, slowly vanishing into the east. The man followed its flight with anxious eyes.

"Riverwood," he said, pointing down into the valley where in the distance a few columns of smoke rose into the sky, "it flies to Riverwood." He turned to me once more. "Come to Windhelm," he said, "we could use someone like you."

A mirthless laughter formed in my throat. Nobody would use me again. Never again.

He ran down the mountainpath without looking back and I let him go, discarded the stolen armour and turned away from the path and into the woods. I knew the name he had told me – Riverwood – and I knew in which direction I had to turn. I had reached my homeland, and that was all that mattered.

I realised that I was free when I crouched in the brushwood at the edge of a glade in a dense pine forest, the lights of a small cottage blinking homey through the encroaching darkness of the evening. A fenced garden, neat rows of leeks, cabbages, potatoes and onions, sunflowers in the corners, a cow and a horse shuffling in a shed. A girl and a boy, obviously siblings, stood at the well and turned the crank, thin arms strained under the weight of the full bucket. Their laughter sounded brightly through the evening air, and they hurried up when their mother called them, the opening door releasing a broad stream of light into the yard.

Nothing was left of the fire, the violence and the death that had ruled here so many years ago and ended my childhood, but to be here in this place, to see the lights and the happiness in the children's faces called up the memories. These people had built their own home on the ruins of mine, and now it was theirs, there was nothing for me to come back to. I didn't know what I had expected… what exactly I had longed for since that moment on the block, but I _knew_ that there would be nothing to come back to. I didn't belong here, I didn't even have the right to be here, hiding like a thief in the night.

It was so peaceful, and they were so normal. Just like we had been, and I didn't have the right to intrude.

The strange longing that had carried me here was already fading when I left the glade, and I buried it ultimately when I found the graves of my family on the graveyard of Falkreath, one stone for my father, one for my sister, the names of my mother and of the newborn brother engraved together on a third. I buried my longing, and I buried the memories. Someone had obviously taken care of their funeral. Perhaps someone remembered the girl that had been missing back then, the corpse they didn't find. But it had taken too long to come back and say farewell, they were gone for too long and I had been gone for too long. I was alone and homeless, belonging nowhere and to noone, but also free and safe.

I made myself a home in the depths of the forest, in a hollow that wasn't quite a cave not far from a lively little creek, enough of a shelter for me and the few things I owned. I didn't need much, but it was a place to come back to. It wasn't hard to survive and to learn the wilderness again – I was the child of a hunter after all, and my father had taught me the ropes of surviving when I could barely walk. I knew this forest since I had been a child, unchanged and familiar over all the years, and the memories of this life came back, sometimes haunting me, more often guaranteeing my survival. Now I remembered how to make traps and where to place them best, how to read the tracks and trails and how to sneak on my game. I hunted for my life, for meat and furs, found berries, roots and a nest of wild honey, made myself a sturdier bow and fur armour to replace the prisoner's rags. I didn't freeze and seldom starved, and I didn't need much.

It wasn't hard to survive, but at first, it was hard to be alone. I just wasn't used to it. I had never been truely alone before in my life, there had always been some kind of company… my family, my master, the other girls, servants and the other guards. There had always been someone near, a breathing, talking body, not really close but still there. My mind was glad to be alone, to have escaped, that there was nobody who disturbed my chosen life, nobody who told me what to do. This was what I wanted. But habits of a lifetime died hard, and I hated myself when I woke up and felt unconsciously for the warmth of another body beside mine, when I listened for voices and waited for the stroking hand to wake me, only to feel relief flare up that nobody was there as soon as I became aware.

Nightmares that promised a treacherous escape plagued me, dreams in which I had everything I was used to, warmth and food, shelter and luxury for the sole price of abandoning myself. I dreamt of feasts and of the gifts I had received, from my master and from others, and when I woke freezing and starving and the question emerged why I had left all this behind, I hated myself for it.

It was late at night when I came back to my camp after a long hunt, dirty, sweaty and tired, a fawn slung over my shoulder, when I found the man kneeling on my furs and rummaging through my sparse belongings. I froze at the edge of the glade, let the animal slip silently to the ground and pulled the bow from my back. I could smell his stench of old sweat and stale ale over the distance, scrubby blonde hair hanging unkempt into his neck, and the sight coiled in my stomach into a lump of dread and anger. I drew my bow and pointed an arrow at him before I stepped out into the open.

"Stop that, or you're dead," I pressed out between gritted teeth, my voice hoarse. It sounded strange even to me, I hadn't heard myself speak for so long.

Slowly the man turned around, staying on his knees, bloodshot eyes taking in my appearance. The way his gaze wandered over my body caused a wave of nausea. A lewd grin appeared on his face, and his hand moved to the hilt of the sword at his hip.

"My, such a pretty," he drawled, "and living here all on her own. Poor thing."

Slowly he rose and stalked towards me, drawing his weapon, a predatory glimpse in his eyes, as if he expected me to submit to his mere presence. He didn't question his superiority even for a second, although my grip on my weapon didn't falter.

Fury flared up, a red haze lying over my eyes, and the arrow flew and buried itself into his chest. He recoiled with a scream of pain and disbelief, fell to his back with flailing arms. When I stood before him, blood bubbled out of his mouth, the arrow had pierced his lung, but still his hand tried to clench around my ankle.

"Bitch," he muttered with hatefilled eyes. I stepped on his wrist and broke it with an audible crunch.

"Told you you're dead," I said, watching calmly as he writhed in pain. The dagger I wore was only made from iron, a worn, blunt thing, but it was sharp enough to pierce between his ribs. I discarded the corpse of its weapon and dragged it away, far into the woods.

He wasn't the first man I had killed, I had fought and bested the soldiers during my flight from Helgen before, but he was the first that counted. I didn't think if it was murder, if it was necessary, if I could have fought him, defeated him and let him live. He had threatened me, and he died for it.

The nightmares stopped, no more nights that left me yelling and gasping, covered in cold sweat. No more nightmares of others who came too close, no more nightmares of being used. When I stopped to dream, I was safe with myself and my solitude became my true shelter. I had proven that I could rely solely on my own strength and skills, and I forgot how it was to have company. I forgot how to speak. In the end, I didn't even talk to myself any more.

I was only a silent hunter, taking the lives of my prey for my own. Sometimes I saw others from afar, roaming through the forest, hunting like me and living their solitary, free lives. But they always moved on, I avoided them whenever possible, and they left me alone. Sometimes I also looked at windows in the distance when I went too far and reached the edge of the forest, brightly lit and strangely inviting. But they were always too far away, and their invitation wasn't meant for me.

I didn't know how many weeks and months I spent like this, living with my thoughts and my eyes on the prey, clad in its furs, the tips of my arrows made from its bones. I had everything I needed, but the days became shorter and the nights colder. I knew survival would become harder, and I had to prepare for the coming winter.

When I found the hunter bleeding out from a bear bite, the beast lying dead beside him, I fought with myself. He was injured too severely to survive without help, blood pooling under him and his skin ashen, and when I watched him from afar, I knew it would be easiest just to let him die. He wouldn't live through the night, and then not only the bear pelt would be mine, but also his gear – fine leather armour, at least those parts that weren't shredded from the beast's paws, a bedroll that looked soft and clean and so much warmer than my raw furs, arrows with steelen tips and two of the most beautiful daggers I had ever seen tied to his belt.

He was a Dunmer, bow and quiver lying beside him, white warpaint on dark skin emphasizing his strong features, red hair tied into a high tail. He still looked fierce and strong, despite the wounds, the sickly pale tone of his skin and the obvious pain that highlighted the alien angles of his face.

The decision to let him die or to help was taken out of my hands when the skeever crawled out of the brush, sniffing at him, the mer too weak to chase it away. Skeever, the reeking vermin of the woods, feeding on carrion and stealing the game of others, strong only in groups and against prey unable to help itself. I hated them with a passion, and when there was one, there would be more of them soon. I would not bear them to come close to another hunter.

My arrow let the beast fly backwards, and I kicked the corpse further away from the mer. Its brethren would take care of it. Weary crimson eyes full of astonishment and pain looked up to me when I approached the motionless figure. I helped him first, let the healing draught drop carefully into his mouth, cleaned and bandaged his wounds, gave him to drink. When I started to skin the bear, he had recovered enough to watch me curiously, a silent smile in his face.

"Do you have a name, my nameless saviour?" he asked finally, his voice rough from pain and exhaustion.

I gave him a look over my shoulder, my gaze again caught by his weapons, bloody hands buried in the carcass of the beast. His daggers were so much better than the blunt, worn iron thing I used, finely smithed steel with an intricate shine. He followed my look, reached for his belt and offered me one of the blades, hilt first. "You'll never finish with that butterknife of yours," he said with a weak grin.

"Qhourian," I said hesitantly, reaching for the dagger. "My name's Qhourian." My voice was hoarse and rough and unfamiliar even for me, I hadn't used it for so long.

"Strange name for a Nord." But he didn't ask any further, let me work in silence, and when I had finished and the pelt lay neatly folded beside me, he slept.

I should have just gone and left him. I had done what I could to help him, I only wanted the fur and I could have even taken the dagger and his arrows with me. It wasn't my concern any more if he survived the night. But I stayed, I didn't know why, and watched over his sleep and his restless dreams, and when he woke from the pain I gave him more of my precious potions.

Next morning, he was gone. I fell asleep sometimes during the night, I wasn't used to keep watch over someone else. But he only took a few herbs and fresh bandages from my pack, and he left a note behind – pinned to the rough bark of the pine tree I leant against with that weapon I wanted so badly.

"_Thanks for your help. If you ever come to Whiterun, seek me out – ask for me in Jorrvaskr, the hall of the Companions. Stay safe. Athis."_

I nearly laughed out loud when I read it, crumpled it together and threw it away. He was either mad, ravenous from pain and infections, or he made fun of me. Jorrvaskr! A Companion! Every Nord knew the history of Ysgramor, the legendary founder of our culture, the first human on Tamriel ever, conquering the land for my kind in a war against the elves. Every Nord knew the Companions, his successors, this nearly mythical group of warriors. A bond thousands of years old, men and women bound by blood, honour and history who until today represented the true Nordic way to live, to fight and to die.

Never would they let a mer join their ranks. Never would they let a nameless fugitive come near them.

I didn't care what became of the stranger, perhaps I'd find his frozen corpse or his blank bones some day somewhere in my hunting grounds. But I had gained a warm pelt that would serve me well during the months of winter and a new dagger from the encounter. The few potions he had cost me were a small price for these treasures.

Perhaps I had become too confident in my own skills, perhaps hunger and exhaustion had weakened my reflexes, perhaps I was just too desperate to free the rabbit from my trap, trying to untangle the slippery, wet leather strips that had strangled it without destroying the snare. But in the end, it was only carelessness.

The wolf was alone, and I simply didn't hear him coming. A loner, perhaps an old beast expelled from his pack, struggling for survival on his own. A woman, hunched down in the middle of the forest, oblivious to her surroundings, was far too easy prey even for old muscles and dull fangs.

But I was lucky. Lucky that the impact of the enormous body let me topple over, and his fangs snapped shut in the air instead of around my neck. Lucky that the heavy weight that crushed into my back let me fall so convenient that I only broke the wrist of my left hand, . And lucky that I reacted instinctively when the pain shot into my brain, throwing back my head and hitting his sensitive nose, irritating him long enough to crawl away from him, just a few steps, turn around and face him.

I was even able to draw my weapon and stab him before he was over me again, the sharp steel of the blade piercing the fur without resistance. But I had no leverage and no time to target my attack, and it slid off a rib, but it provided enough distraction to cause his fangs to close around my shoulder instead my throat.

The pain from the bite made me scream, his canines easily sharp enough to pierce through the furs of my simple armour. The beast stood above me, silent triumph in his golden eyes.

I didn't know where I took the strength from, but I let the dagger fall away and clenched my fist around his throat in a desperate effort to keep his muzzle away from mine. He jerked and snapped in my grip, drivel flying and his claws tearing through fabric and skin, and I knew that in the end, he would kill me. The pain from the bites and the broken wrist already numbed my thoughts while the uninjured arm that tried to keep the beast away already trembled from the effort, his monstrous head coming closer and closer.

It was strange how a few short moments could stretch into eternity. Strange how it was possible to make decisions in a split second when it's life that hangs in the balance. Strange how the lines of thought that led to such a decision seemed so incredibly inevitable and logical afterwards.

With the last bit of power my tortured muscles could muster I gave him a violent shove, hard enough to lift the huge body far enough to squeeze my broken arm between him and me. I offered it to him and he took the bait, and I nearly blacked out when his jaws close around the forearm, the hand dangling useless in the grip of his teeth. But I had gained a precious moment, and now the broken bone was my least concern. I used the second I had to remove my other hand from his throat, grab the dagger that lay discarded beside me and jab it to the hilt into his eye.

He died with his teeth in my flesh, his weight crunching my ribs, and finally everything became black.


	3. Jorrvaskr

Drifting in and out of the void. When my mind came closer to the surface, there was pain and heat and cold, flames that ate me alive from the inside, my head close to burst asunder. There were voices and hands on my skin and _people_ that made me thrash in fear against their grip. I wanted to scream but I couldn't, no sound breaching the aching fog clouding my senses.

Sometimes, there was water dropping down my parched throat, a voice gentle like a lullaby and soothing coolness on my forehead.

But the terror was back immediately when the fog finally lifted, leaving only a throbbing pain behind and I and remembered who I was. I was warm and clean, and I lay in a bed.

_In a bed._

On a real mattress, soft and yielding under my body, clad in a cotton shirt and covered by a soft woolen blanket. More parts of me than not were wrapped in clean bandages. On both sides of the bed stood a paravent, leather hides stringed into a simple square rack, the floor was covered in thick carpets and furs, the furniture rich, sturdy and valuable, at least the bit I could see. On the walls hang plaques with weapons and shields, items of a style and material I had never seen before but obviously incredibly precious. Only above my bed hang the taxidermied head of a sabrecat, its fangs pointing directly at my throat.

I was alone, and all these impressions had time to sink slowly into my dazed brain. My wrist hurt, and I remembered that I had broken it. But I didn't know why I could barely move my right shoulder, what all these bandages wrapped around my limbs, abdomen and chest were for and why every single muscle ached as I tried to sit up.

When the panic struck me like the fist of a giant, it clenched my chest, clouded my eyes with a red haze and shook me with a wave of nausea. This was far too rich, far too comfortable and luxurious. I was wrong, I didn't belong here.

I threw back the blanket and swang my feet to the ground, trying to stand up. But my knees gave way under my weight, and blinding pain shot through my wrist as I tried to catch myself on the brittle rack that held the visual cover, stumbling and falling when it broke under my weight. My own whimper sounded hollow in my ears. The splinters ripped my palm open, but now I could see that the room was long and narrow, rows of beds lined up along the wall, separated with nightstands and some with similar paravents like the one I had destroyed, some with chests or trunks at their footends. And at the end of the aisle a door stood open, whatever lay behind it too dimly lit to see where it led.

An exit. I had to get out.

I was too weak to stand up, but I crawled forwards on all fours, leaving red dots on the carpet, sobbing and tasting copper when I bit my lip in an effort to stay quiet. I tried to stand up again, clenched bloody hands into the doorframe, desperate and panicked when all I saw was another corridor, only lit by a few torches and lamps. And doors, so many doors. It was… I was trapped, and a scream formed in my head as I fell again and cowered against the wall, a palm pressed to my mouth to prevent the wretching.

It was a beast that stormed around the corner, the first man I saw here, fast, blustering steps carrying him into the room I had tried to leave. He ducked his head when he entered, his shoulders barely fitting through the doorframe, but he stopped dead when he saw me, curled into a ball, bleeding and sobbing. Leather pants, a simple blue linen tunic, black, ruffled, shoulderlong hair… and frighteningly bright eyes that stared down at me, full of shock and bewilderment. The scream of terror that had built up finally erupted from my throat when he bowed down and picked me up without further ado. I fought against him, my nails scratching him through the fabric of his tunic, fear releasing strength I didn't know I had.

But he reacted fast and with not more than a grunt, the arm that was slung around my shoulders pressed me against his chest, locking my arms and my head in his grip, and he didn't care that I bit the palm he had plastered over my mouth as he carried me back to the bed and just let me drop onto the mattress. His hands pressed into my shoulders, his weight holding me down and barring my thrashing until I became stiff and rigid in his grip.

He gnawed at his lip and removed his hands slowly from my body as if he expected me to flail out at him, stood bent over me and stared with his enervating gaze, so bright and intense. He just stared without saying a word, and I could do nothing but return it. A stranger. Thrown onto the mattress. An iron grip I was powerless against. I clenched my fists into the sheets beneath me, the flaring fear coiling into an aching knot of dread into my stomach. But I was too stunned to move, too frozen in my fears, a maelstrom of panic swallowing every thought while I waited for the things to come. For what had to happen.

He frowned in confusion. And then he released me and took a few heavy steps towards the door.

"Athis!" he roared, "move your lazy arse down here!"

I watched incredulously as he hunched down, giving me a thoughtful look over his shoulder while he picked up the remains of the ruined paravent. "Don't forget to breathe, girl," he said calmly.

Athis? _Girl?_

A calm rumble and a quirk of his lips. And then he was gone. I obeyed and exhaled a deep breath to soothe myself.

I heard a door clap, fast steps approaching and a short conversation outside of the room. The men didn't bother to speak quietly.

"What's the matter, Farkas?"

"She's awake. And…"

"Finally. 't was about time. What?"

"I think I scared her." The deep voice sounded somehow sheepish.

"Icebrain." The mer who entered the room shook his head and rolled his eyes. And it was indeed the Dunmer I knew. The madman who had tried to make me believe that he was a Companion. The one I had saved. My openmouthed gaping made him chuckle.

"Did he?" he asked, crimson eyes sparkling, but his grin vanished when he took me in, face bloostained and swollen with tears, my harried expression.

"Azura, what happened?"

"Athis?" I pressed out.

He pulled a chair to the side of the bed, filled a goblet with water from a pitcher and handed it to me. My hands trembled when I took it. I was incredibly thirsty, my head hurt and my eyes burnt.

And I had no idea what was going on. But the attack of sheer terror made way for something else… his appearance, this first vaguely familiar face I encountered here let my stomach flutter with relief. And embarrassment. Even before I realised what it meant that he was here.

"That was only Farkas. He isn't half as dangerous as he looks like," he said casually while he grasped my bloody wrist, but he gave me a confused frown when I yanked my hand out of his grip and clenched my arms around my own chest.

"You're bleeding," he said with an arched eyebrow. But then he bent forwards, propping his elbows on his knees. "What's the matter, Qhourian? Is something wrong?"

Is something wrong? _Is anything right?_

I swallowed heavily, but I pulled myself together and tried to sit up without staining the linens and blanket further with my blood. My head swam, and I didn't know which question to ask first. All I knew that I didn't want to _answer_ any questions.

"Is this…?"

His grin was back. "Jorrvaskr, yes. Surprised?"

I could only nod, dumbfounded. Jorrvaskr. The hall of the Companions. The mer was no lunatic. And that brute… he was probably a Companion too. At least he _looked_ like a Companion. Or how I imagined that a Companion would look like.

"You look as if this was the Imperial Palace."

Jorrvaskr, the Imperial Palace, the backside of Masser… to me, it was all the same. All equally improbable.

But if I could believe him I was in Jorrvaskr. And obviously alive.

"How did I get here?" I choked out.

He gave me a thoughtful gaze. "I tell you if you let me treat that wound. You don't need any more infections."

His scrutiny was enervating, but somehow I knew that what looked like a frown on his strange face with those sharp angles wasn't meant as one. I had met enough elves to know that they all always looked slightly aloof. Altmer fair and aloof, Bosmer savage and aloof and Dunmer surly and aloof. They were just too alien, especially the Dunmer with their dark complexions, exotic features and unreadable eyes.

He raised an expectant eyebrow, and I stretched out my wrist hesitantly as he dipped a cloth into the pitcher. He took it in a gentle grip and started to clean the nasty scratch with experienced motions, smeared a healing salve into the gash and wound a fresh bandage around it. I was glad to have escaped his direct examination.

"Serendipity, I'd say. You were even luckier than I was when you found me." His lips curled into a smirk, but it wasn't malicious. Strange, this mer. But he already spoke on.

"I can only tell you the version that we were told. You know how it is with such improbable stories." No, I didn't. "Some hunters found you, and a dead wolf. They had tracked him down and he was already dead for some time, but you still breathed, and it's a miracle that nothing had made a snack of you in the meantime. They brought you to Riverwood. Sigrid, the wife of the smith there, took care of you at first, but she's no healer and you were injured too severely and still unconscious and feverish, and so she put you on the carriage for Whiterun." He looked up and smiled at my incredulous expression. Carriages cost money, that much I knew.

"Someone _paid_ for me?"

"Well, yes. They're good people out there. Look out for each other. And when a stranger is dropped on their doorstep who can't help himself…" He shrugged. As if it was only natural.

"Anyway," he continued, "you were brought to the temple, and Danica…" My clueless look made him halt. "She's the priestess here. Our local healer. It's a temple of Kynareth. Well, yes, she took care of you. That broken wrist and broken ribs were the smallest problem… well, the wrist was, it was crunched and should have been treated much earlier. But more serious were the flesh wounds, the infections and the sepsis that had spread through your body in the meantime. She had a hard time to get that under control. At least you also got a hit to the head and refused to wake up anyway. But she was also the first who recognised the dagger you wore."

"The dagger… your dagger!"

His grin flared up as if he was proud of himself. "Aye. It's Skyforge steel, Qhourian. Only Companions wear these weapons. And when a strange woman in raw furs appears more dead than alive in Whiterun and wears a Skyforge dagger, of course they inform us. But the temple is full with injured soldiers and there wasn't much she could do for you anyway after you got over the worst, and so I let you bring here. Tilma has some healing skills too."

"To Jorrvaskr."

"Aye."

"You're really a Companion."

"Aye. You didn't believe me?"

It was too much. But before I could think of an answer, someone else poked his head through the door. Another man, another Companion. He was obviously a Nord, broad and burly though not as massive as the first man I had seen, clad head to toe in fine steel armour that was intricately chiseled, the edges adorned with wolf fur. An ornated wolf head decorated the chest piece, and the hilt of the sword that was sheathed in the simple leather scabbard at his hip looked remarkably like the one of my dagger.

A Skyforge weapon. Made in Ysgramor's forge, a fire older than mankind, by the best blacksmith in the province. My father had always said that a true warrior was one with his weapon and that a weapon was nothing without the hand wielding and the head guiding it. Ysgramor's own axe had become part of his legend. And I had come by such a legendary blade and didn't even know it. I had skinned rabbits and wittled arrowheads with it.

The man was balding, he had only one eye and a nasty scar leading from the empty socket down his cheek, but with his gear and dark warpaint that ran in stripes over his cheekbones he looked every inch the true warrior my father had spoken of. When he realised that I was awake and staring at him, its gaze was piercing.

"You're finally awake."

I felt the familiar clenching in my chest. Another stranger. I could just nod, and he scowled at my lack of answer before he turned to Athis. "Have you seen Vilkas?" he asked curtly.

Athis shook his head. "No. Only this morning, training with his brother."

The man vanished without a further word, and Athis turned back to me. His examining scrutiny made me cringe. The relief must have been readable on my face when he pushed back his chair and stood up, because he gave me a slight frown. And a look full of pity.

"No need to be scared, Qhourian. You will heal… and you're safe here."

"From wolves? Or men?" I blurted out. Stress and exhaustion made it hard to think.

His reaction was weird. He laughed, loud and boyish.

"You ask strange questions," he snickered. "But from both, if you ask me. I'll send Tilma to look after your wounds and with something to eat, you must be starving. We can talk more later, and you will meet the others."

Left alone, I fell back into my pillow, my eyes tearing from the throbbing pain in my head. It felt irreal, all of it, I wasn't sure if all of this was really happening, but I recognised with some astonishment that the initial panic was gone.

I had been injured because of my own carelessness. By all logic, I should have been dead by now. But somehow, I wasn't. For some reason people had saved and taken care of me, without being asked for it and without payment.

_Without compensation._

It was something so new that I had difficulties to grasp it, much less to trust in it. I always had to pay for everything I had – with my body, my dignity, my self-respect.

But for the moment I was injured, unable to leave and dependent on them. I didn't know why the Companions had taken me in, a nameless stranger – Athis had paid for the help I had given him, and he owed me nothing.

Shame for being here, useless and at their mercy and helplessness because there was nothing I could do about it welled up in me as the exhaustion became overwhelming. All I could do was to get back on my feet as fast as possible, not to be a burden to them for longer than necessary.

A bowl with a lukewarm broth stood on the nightstand beside me when I woke up, and a girl leant relaxed against the headboard of the bed opposite of mine. A girl with weird paintings on her face, a stripe along her chin and some reddish ornaments around her eyes that trailed up to her temples. Perhaps she thought it made her look fierce, but the roundness of her cheeks, the braids dangling around her face and the dimples that appeared with her smile when she saw me stir made her look like a dressed up child. On the other hand, her sleeveless leather jerkin revealed the muscular shoulders and arms of someone used to wield heavy weights, and she hopped off the mattress, bouncing twice before she landed on her feet, with the smooth movements of a warrior.

"Hi, I'm Ria," she said unceremoniously, dropping down on the edge of my bed. "How are you doing?"

She resonated with energy and curiosity. I watched her warily. "Qhourian," I said lowly, taking the offered hand. But I avoided her eyes, and she followed my gaze and handed me the bowl with the broth. I took it greedily, and she watched me drinking it down with a friendly grin.

"I know, Athis told us. You must be famished. You've been more or less out for nearly 3 days. Or even longer, we don't know how long it took before you came to the temple. You don't either, do you?"

"More or less?" I asked confused. I didn't remember anything since… now that I thought about it, the eyes of the wolf were the last I knew, coming closer and closer, the hunger in them.

I shuddered.

"Are you cold?" The young woman bounced away and grabbed the blanket from the bed she had sat on. Some kind of disappointment stood in her face when I shook my head, and she dropped it at my footend. "Yes, on and off. Sometimes you were a bit less unconscious. Enough to feed you some potions and water, or you'd be much worse now."

I didn't remember anything. I always thought people were either unconscious or not.

"You helped me… with that?"

"Why yes, of course! I sleep here too, you know? And Njada… usually. Sometimes she sleeps in the other room. When Torvar is away and only Athis stays in the boys' room, then she stays there too." She grinned a bit sheepishly.

Of course. This was a dormitory, after all. Of course people slept here, although all the beds were tidied up quite neatly. And I had no idea who Njada and Torvar were.

I stopped her current of words. "What time of day is it?

"Late afternoon. Oh." She threw her hands in the air. "You haven't been out yet, have you? Gods, I'd go crazy to be trapped down here. You know that we are underground, do you?" Her way to end every sentence with a question without to wait for an answer was exhausting… or annoying… or endearing. I wasn't sure.

I shook my head. "I know nothing about Jorrvaskr. Barely how I came here."

"Yep, it was your luck that you still had that dagger with you, wasn't it? Although Danica did the main work, you're nearly as good as new. Some scars will remain, but you don't mind scars, do you?"

"I don't know," I said slightly amused, "I didn't have many scars before. But I suppose I don't."

"Aye, scars aren't that bad. Look here." Suddenly she knelt beside me, pushing my thighs away. It hurt, but I clenched my teeth. She yanked up her jerkin and presented me her bare stomach. A long line of glossy skin trailed from her ribcage past her navel and vanished under the waistband of her pants.

"Cavebear," she said proudly, "but I killed it. Have you ever killed a bear?"

"No." I smiled. She was really a bit like a child. I couldn't fathom her swinging a weapon and _killing_ something. Or someone. I could also not fathom anyone doing _her_ any harm. It would destroy this openness and naivity once and for all.

"Okay," she jumped up, pulling down the edge of her clothes, "I gotta go. Just wanted to look after you. We'll have a feast tonight, so don't worry if it becomes a bit louder. Aela and Njada have been away on some important jobs, and now they're back, and it was Torvar's birthday two days ago and he will get shitfaced plastered tonight, and then Farkas will have to carry him to his bed again… or he will just sleep upstairs at the fire… well, you know how that goes, don't you?"

No, I didn't. But it sounded like fun. The last I wanted was to spoil it for them.

"Don't bother about me, Ria. And have fun." The girl already bounced towards the door, but she turned once more, chewing on her lower lip.

"It will be _really_ loud," she said sheepishly. "I don't think you'll be able to sleep. I'd say you come up and drink with us, but I suppose …?" She pointed at my wrapped up limbs and didn't finish the sentence.

I gave her a small grin. "No. I can barely stand on my own feet." She was too cute, and I believed her that she would have dragged me into their party if my condition had allowed it. I knew though – and the others knew it probably too – that I had no place in there.

"Yeah. Buggers." Her face lit up. "I could get you something to read. Some books. From Kodlak or Vilkas."

Wow. They had something like scholars here? Of course they had. This was no mindless group of bloodthirsty killers. I nodded. "That would be nice. Thank you, Ria."

But it wasn't Ria who came back a few minutes later, it was a man… the same man who had hurled me back to the bed after my fruitless attempt to escape, only that he was now clad in the same kind of armour that Skjor had worn, he had shaved and his hair was neatly oiled and tucked behind his ears. But he still had to stoop when he entered to room. How had Athis called him? Farkas?

I blushed when he stood before me, arms crossed over his chest, his face frowned into an indifferent scowl. His pale gaze had all the warmth and gentleness of a glacier. I had made a fool of myself before… no wonder he regarded me with so much open suspicion.

"I'm Vilkas," he said with a snide, "Master-of-Arms of the Companions. And I'd appreciate if you didn't distract our whelps from their duties. It's bad enough that Athis neglects his jobs to help you recover, but we really don't need any further curtailings. Ria missed half of her training because of your needless chatter."

My confused expression only deepened his scowl.

Ria had missed her training because she had waited for me to wake up? We hadn't talked that long. How was I supposed to know what her duties were? And why was he so irate? And he wasn't Farkas? His brother? His twin?

Yes, his twin, that was obvious now that I had a closer look, although some differences became apparent. Although the similarities were striking, same height and the same facial features with strong brows over these eerie pale eyes, broad cheekbones and a strong chin, this Vilkas was less bulky than his brother. By no means slender or scrawny, only a bit leaner and with much less muscle mass. But he moved and held himself with the easy grace of a predator, ready to attack at any given moment, and at the moment he leveled a glower full of deep anguish at me.

And the threat in his tone was obvious. People had been nice so far… at least those I had spoken with, but I should have known that a stranger in these halls wasn't appreciated by everyone. He just showed me my place – a guest, a burden, interfering with their duty. And he made more than clear that being a Companion meant discipline and commitment, that he would tolerate neither laxness from his whelps – what a strange label – nor disturbances from a nuisance like me.

No need to jump down my throat like that, though. I had no intention to disturb their daily routine, quite the contrary. More than ever I felt like an impurity in these halls, and my determination to leave as soon as possible only grew.

"My apologies, Vilkas," I said calmly, "it won't happen again."

Some of the anguish was replaced by irritation. He stared at me for a moment as if he had to figure out my intentions, but there was nothing to figure out… I meant it exactly as I said, and I endured his examination without flinching. But I was relieved when he nodded curtly, turned on his heels and left the room without a further word.

I didn't want to read anyway.

Tilma, the woman Athis and Ria had mentioned already, turned out to be an elderly woman who claimed to have cared for the warriors of Jorrvaskr as long as she could remember – and it sounded as if she meant since Ysgramor's times. But she brought me a light meal and unwrapped endless smudgy bandages, and for the first time I had opportunity to have a closer look at the nasty wounds the claws and teeth of the wolf had left. Yes, there would be scars, lots of them.

The Companions were really loud when they were feasting. There was laughter and music and songs, the clapping of hands and clanking of mugs, a brawl with lots of shouting, dancing and heated, drunken arguments. But it didn't matter to me. A gentle warmth spread through my stomach after the meal of cooked potatoes, grilled leeks and tender chicken breast, and my head felt as if it was stuffed with tundra cotton when a light fever returned. The noise swept over me in gentle waves, and I slept deep and dreamless.


	4. Healing

"Come on, join us. You gotta meet the others." Athis stood at the footend of my bed, arms crossed over his chest, and gave me an inviting grin. "I know you've been to the bath today, and on your own two feet."

Yes, I had, but only with Tilma's help. The peak of bliss would have been to soak myself in one of the huge bathtubs, but with all the open wounds scattered over my body that was unfortunately impossible. But it had still been wonderful to wash away all that sweat and gore with hot water and some lavender-scented soap.

It had been two days since I woke utterly confused in the bowels of Jorrvaskr, and on the one hand, I was overwhelmed by the helpfulness and friendliness of the Companions. The care I got was the best I could have wished for, Tilma fed me meals that were fit for the court of a Jarl, brought potions to dim the pain and treated my wounds with horribly smelling concoctions and salves. Even the priestess Danica, a friendly, professional woman, had visited once to control the stitches and infections, but when she saw that I made progress, she was gone again as fast as she had appeared, obviously in a hurry.

But on the other hand, all this helpfulness and friendliness was frightening. I didn't want to answer Ria's innocent but curious questions about the fight that had brought me into this mess and even less those about where I came from and what I had done out there that the wolf had catched me all alone. I had no answers for her... but she was only friendly, and every time I tried to dodge her curiosity, I was afraid to disappoint her - or worse, rouse her suspiciousness. The wary, unfriendly look of the woman who swept out of the quarters the morning after their party without so much as a greeting was already bad enough. Ria's explanation that Njada was like that to every stranger and that I shouldn't bother about her didn't help at all.

And I remembered vividly Vilkas' snarky remark about me being a disturbance for _his whelps_. I didn't want to be a nuisance or interfere with their daily business. Yes, I was grateful to live. But although Jorrvaskr was huge and impressive, at least the parts I had seen so far, it was also incredibly crowded. Far too crowded, and it was nearly impossible to stay out of each other's way. Nearly a dozen people lived here permanently, and additional guests, associates, clients and friends often stayed for a night or longer. It was a beehive with people coming and going all the time... and after only two days I already missed the solitude I had fought so hard to get used to, and I dreaded the time I would have to spend here. I wasn't used to make conversation, to be friendly and to express my gratitude, and I had the feeling I had to express my gratitude all the time. They didn't owe me anything, after all.

And now Athis wanted to drag me into their company for the evening meal.

Biting my lip, I tried desperately to find an excuse.

"I don't feel so well. I'm not hungry," I muttered finally, blushing under his examination.

He tilted his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. "So you wanna bury yourself down here for the next weeks?"

"Weeks?" I squealed.

He laughed lowly. "Yes, weeks. I won't let you leave as long you're not completely up to the mark."

I groaned, pulling the blanket up to my chin. "Why do you do that, Athis? I could have just as well stayed at the temple."

He sat down at the edge of my bed, watching me intently. "You really have to ask? You saved my life although it would have been much more profitable for you just to let me die. Don't think I'm not aware of that."

"But it only cost me a few potions. And I still got that pelt and your dagger."

"You count a life against a lousy pelt and a piece of steel?" I had upset him, and his irked expression made me cringe.

"But I have nothing to pay this back! You spend all this stuff on me, and Vilkas is angry for a reason..."

He narrowed his eyes. "Vilkas? What did he say?"

"Nothing. Just that you don't need any more disturbances... and that I kept Ria from her training. And that you neglect your jobs."

Anger flared up in his eyes, but he pulled himself together. "I tell you something, Qhourian. About how the Companions work. You worry far too much." He gave me a small smile. "Vilkas is part of the Circle. That's... some of our members who act as advisors to the Harbinger. They keep track of our contracts, decide which ones to take and which not, deal with the clients, take care that the payments run in... stuff like that. They're also the best in what they do. Vilkas is Master-of-Arms for a reason, no one in all of Skyrim who handles a greatsword or claymore like he." He took a deep breath. "But all this doesn't mean that he can order me around, or Ria or anybody else. Not even you. And if I decide not to dig for some forsaken family heirloom in a rotten cave in the Reach while you're struggling with death here, that's solely my decision and not his business."

He must have seen the doubt in my face. Vilkas didn't make the impression as if anything going on in Jorrvaskr wasn't his business.

"But I wasn't struggling with death any more. And I don't want you..."

But he interrupted me. "Stop arguing, Qhourian. You wanna get on your feet again as fast as possible, don't you?"

I nodded. On my feet and out of here.

"Okay. You will heal much faster if you stop fretting. It was my decision to take you in, Kodlak gave his approval, and neither Vilkas nor you will do anything against it. It's not that we don't have enough free beds." He stood up and gave me an encouraging grin. "And now join me. You don't want to force Tilma to serve you down here when you're perfectly capable to come upstairs, do you?"

Well, I was far from being perfectly capable, cold sweat standing on my forehead and my legs trembling after the short climb up the stairs, but everything was forgotten when I entered the main hall for the first time. I didn't know what I had expected… but certainly not this. I had no idea that a room could feel majestic, awe-inspiring and cozy at the same time.

Jorrvaskr was a single-floor building with a gigantic main room, huge in every dimension. The main area was big like a ballroom, only that it was dominated by a large firepit that spent warmth and light, on one long and both short sides lined by rows of tables that were now laden with food. The scent of stew, roasted meat and fresh bread watered my mouth.

This main floor was surrounded by a gallery that lay a few feet higher and on which we stood now, passing past broad double doors on both sides of the room and several smaller exits to what I assumed were kitchen and storage rooms. The stone floor in the centre was covered by long carpets in red and gold, the evening sun streamed in rays through latticed windows, candles burnt in large chandeliers and added to the overall homey atmosphere.

But the most distinctive characteristic beside its sheer size was the vaulted roof spanning high over the whole length and width of the room, the wood blackened over the centuries and held by enormous wooden columns that were adorned with intricate carvings, colourful banners and plaques with an impressive selection of valuable, choice weapons.

It looked ages old, much older than the stone quarters in the lower level, and it oozed history. Or perhaps it was just my imagination, but as I span on my heels and looked around, Athis watched my reverence with a gentle chuckle. On the wall beside the staircase hang a plaque on the wall above our heads that catched my eyes because it somehow didn't fit into all the splendour. It displayed several fragments of charred metal, but even my untrained eye could see that the craftsmanship was incredible despite its destroyed state. I trailed one of the shards with the tip of my finger, turning to Athis.

"What is this?"

But before he could answer, a dark, angry voice came from a corner. "Don't touch it. That's Wuuthrad. It is…"

Vilkas. I turned, making out the man nearly hidden behind a pillar. "I know what Wuuthrad is," I interrupted him sharply, "Ysgramor's axe."

Again there was irritation in his expression, besides astonishment and anger. He looked as if I had tried to melt the shards into a pitchfork. Athis took wordlessly my elbow and led me down to the tables that were laden with food. It didn't seem as if they had formal dinner during which they all came together, but that everybody took what and consumed it wherever he wanted. To my relief, the hall was nearly empty, only an old man sat on a side table and another brought him his meal, and the man I knew as Skjor sat at the fire. The mer nodded to him in greeting, filling two plates with potatoes, grilled leek and some kind of roast and beckoned me to follow him.

"Let's eat outside, I've heard that sunlight can do wonders to a sour mood. I'll give you a tour later." He spoke louder than necessary, and I answered his boyish grin with a chuckle. Somehow, I felt safe in his company.

During the following days I did what he had told me and tried not to fret too much. Of course my naive imagination of Jorrvaskr and the Companions had been more lyrical than correct. The legendary heirs of Ysgramor were people like... well, perhaps not like everybody else, I could sit for hours and watch them come and go, impressive in their gleaming armours and shining weapons when they went away and equally impressive when they came back, encrusted with blood and gore, sometimes limping, sometimes bleeding but always victorious.

But they were still people with quirks and mannerisms. I learned that Aela the Huntress preferred to spend her free time out in the woods instead of inside the hall and that she was the one providing most of the enormous amounts of meat the warriors consumed. I learned that Torvar was a burly Nord with no restraints when it came to indulging himself into his mead, but who was nevertheless able to be miraculously sober when he went out on a job. Njada regarded me with barely veiled repulsion I didn't understand at first, until I saw her come out of the men's sleeping quarters one morning, shooting me a triumphant gaze. I knew Torvar had been out that night, and I understood. I gave her and Athis who appeared after her an amused smile. That evening, she challenged him to a brawl and beat him to pulp. And I learned that the only occasion that Vilkas lost his frosty, clinical demeanor was when his brother thawed him up. Farkas was a lighthearted, friendly hulk, helpful and companionable, while his brother either whipped the _whelps_ through his unrelenting training or stayed to himself, usually brooding over a tankard of mead and a book. Strange, these twins.

The only one I didn't get to know was their Harbinger, Kodlak. Athis said he was ill and stayed mostly in his quarters. Only once, when I woke from a nap, I caught an old man standing in the doorway of the living quarters, staring at me. He was an impressive figure, broad and bulky, with a mane of neatly braided hair and a full grey beard under lively eyes that seemed to pierce through my sleepy haze. He didn't look ill. But when he saw that I was awake, he turned on his heels and was gone without a word.

But in the end, they all were just people… although different from all the other people I had ever known.

What distinguished them from others were the strong ties that obviously bound them together. They behaved like a family… I witnessed tensions and fights, but beneath the quarrels I felt a deep trust, a kind of unspoken understanding. In an hour of need, they'd stand together no matter what, and they called themselves shield-siblings for a reason.

I felt these ties, but I didn't belong to them, and after some time most of them left me alone, the prodding and curious questions about my past stopped. I tried to stay out of their way, their flings, quarrels and bonds didn't concern me. No one ever came too close, no one ever made any demands. And strangely, their reserve made me feel safe.

But I made progress, only the bitewound on my arm where the wolf's fangs had mauled it into a gory mess of raw flesh simply didn't want to heal. But as soon as I could I tried to make myself useful by helping Tilma. How she got the whole business up and running nearly all on her own was a miracle to me, although everybody else seemed to take it for granted. She sent me on errands into the city, to the market and to the various traders, and I welcomed these small tasks as they allowed me to stroll through the streets all on my own, get to know the city and escape the crowded tightness of Jorrvaskr.

The injuries and the long-lasting fever had left me frighteningly weak, and I knew I'd have to regain my strength before I could think of leaving. And the days flew by at an alarmingly fast rate. Training with the Companions was not an option, not only didn't I have any gear, watching them during their exercises in Jorrvaskr's backyard I knew that I was no match to them. And so I started my own practicing, made long marches around the huge cliff Whiterun was built upon while gathering flowers and roots for Tilma she could sell to the local apothecary. The consumption of potions and salves by the Companions was enormous, and it was the least I could do to cover these expenses.

The marches became runs, the same loop every day, and it felt good when I needed less and less time for the round along the outer walls and the steep cliff beneath the palace of the Jarl, past a watchtower and through the fields of the farmers directly outside of the city. Additionally I used a dead tree on my way as a training dummy, went into the familiar motions, attacks and parades and worked myself out until every single muscle hurt. The only thing I missed was a bow to practice my archery.

But my extended absences didn't go unnoticed, and once a gruff voice stopped me as I opened the front doors.

"Where are you going, girl?"

Farkas stood behind me, looking intimidating in his steel training armour, dark warpaint smeared around his eyes, but his rumbling question sounded only curious.

"Out," I said hesitating. _To run around the city_ sounded simply ridiculous, I had to admit. "Gather some stuff for Arcadia."

"Like this?"

"What do you mean?"

He gave me a once-over. "You're not even armed."

"Of course I am!" My hand went to the hilt of the dagger that was strapped to my belt.

A short grin flared up in his face. "No, you're not." He turned on his heels and descended down the stairs to the living quarters, beckoning me to follow him and leading me into a side corridor where he opened a nondescript door. "Choose," he said curtly.

It was a storeroom fit to equit an entire army, with racks and chests, tables and shelves full of weapons and armour, from tiny daggers to enormous battleaxes I'd barely be able to lift, from throwing darts to curved bows as long as I, from leather gear to heavy armour pieces made from iron, steel or kinds of metal I couldn't name. Farkas took in my wide eyes with a chuckle. "What?" he said, "these are just leftovers for emergencies, loot and discarded stuff. We all have our personal gear."

I looked around in awe, but it wasn't hard to choose. I took a steel mace, an elegant willow longbow and a quiver with iron arrows, feeling martial when when I had strapped it all on. I knew it was only on loan, but it felt good nevertheless.

"Now we only gotta find you some armour," Farkas said, examining me. "Leather, I suppose?" I could only nod. "You're taller than the other girls," he muttered while opening chests and rummaging through shelves, putting a cuirass, some leather pants and a pair of gloves aside. He handed me the items. "Here, try them on. I'll be right back."

The familiar weight of well-fitting leather on my shoulders brought back the memories of my time in Cheydinhal with sudden vehemence, constricting my throat. Only when I heard Farkas clearing his throat, I shook myself out of my thoughts. He watched me pensively, having changed into leather pants and jacket himself, his longsword strapped to his hip.

"Suits you," he said gruffly, "now let's get going."

"You're gonna...?"

"Join you, yes. It's the least I can do. That arm of yours is still useless." He was right, unfortunately, the cuff of the gauntlet barely fit over the bandages. But my time alone was precious to me.

"I can take care of myself," I said tersely.

He frowned. "No, you can't. There are sabrecats out there. And wolves. And there's a giant camp not far."

He was right, of course, but we both knew that all this was no danger as long as I didn't leave the vicinity of Whiterun. I just wanted to work myself out and pick some flowers, for Kyne's sake!

But he shooed me out of the room and out of Jorrvaskr, and I knew that it would need more than my meager excuses to keep him from carrying out an idea that had once settled in his head. When we had passed the marketplace, he fell into the same light jog as I.

"Are you in a hurry?" he asked with a grin.

"No," I answered between clenched teeth.

But it took until we had left the walls of the city behind that I felt his hand on my shoulder. He surprised me, and I yanked out of his grip, causing a confused look. "What exactly are we doing here, Qhourian? I thought you wanted to pick flowers?" He pointed at a tuft of tundra cotton right at his feet.

I groaned. "Told you you don't have to accompany me. I'm just..."

Sudden understanding flew over his face. "You're training, aren't you? Running around the city to build up your stamina?"

I felt the blood rush into my cheeks. "Yes," I said defiantly. "I have to start somewhere, after all."

A laughter broke out of him. "You're really crazy, woman," he guffawed, "you live in Jorrvaskr and make up your own exercises? Have you ever thought of joining us? What do you need that for, anyway? It's not that you're weak."

My face burnt with embarrassment. Of course I was weak, compared to them. And he had no idea how I lived, that I had to prepare myself. None of them knew how I lived, I realised suddenly.

I studied the fluffy cotton balls at my feet intently. They reminded how far into fall we already were and how much time I had already spent here. "Just leave me be, Farkas. Please," I said lowly. He just meant well, but I didn't know why. We were all alone, I didn't know about his intentions, and it was scary.

But only incomprehension stood in his face. He tried to lay his hand on my shoulder, but I flinched away. His bright gaze on me was disconcerting. "What do you need this kind of training for, Qhourian?" he asked quietly. "I know I scared you on your first day, but I thought that was just... a misunderstanding. But now you're scared again. Why? And why didn't you ask us?"

These were exactly the questions I didn't want to answer, that I had successfully avoided for so long. I hoped he wouldn't see the despair in my face as I turned an ran away.

But he followed me, easily keeping up, and the sound of his steps behind me chased me along until I felt the familiar stitches in the side from overexertion. But I clenched my teeth and followed my usual path until my legs went numb, stopping only when I had reached the stables again, drenched in sweat, my palms propped on my knees and panting heavily. The stable master gave me a curious glance, and to know that he watched us made me relax slightly.

Farkas catched up, barely out of breath.

"See?" My grin was cheerless. "_That's_ why I didn't ask."

He eyed me pensively. "That wasn't bad," he said calmly, "I'm cheating, after all."

"Cheating?"

He chuckled. "Aye. First, I'm used to move along in steel. And second..." he fumbled a simple copper chain out of his neckline, "this is enchanted to restore stamina. Very useful." His sheepish grin made me laugh, but he became serious again. "I'm sorry, Qhourian. I shouldn't have pressed you. But... whatever you need it for, I'm sure I could show you a thing or two. Okay?"

I would never have a chance like this again, to get tips from a Companion. I didn't know why he made this offer... but he seemed genuine. Farkas always seemed genuine.

"Why would you do this?" I asked warily.

He shrugged. "I like to teach others. And... what you're doing here is simply silly." His frankness made me blush again, but he had already drawn his sword. "Come on, show me what you can."

"Here? Now?"

He bared his teeth in a devious grin. "Yep."

I didn't land a blow on him, of course not. But the mace was a weapon I was familiar with, and when I lunged for him and he dodged my clumsy attack easily, I was at least able to twist out of his blade's way fast enough to prevent that his counterattack disarmed me with his first strike. Astonishment was written into his face after we exchanged a few moves against each other.

"You're used to that weapon. I thought you're just an archer?" His curiosity was obvious, but he didn't dig further when he saw my tightlipped expression. "It's something we can work with, at least. But you're rusty." His grin flashed up. "I'll get you fit, believe me."

I had no idea what I had gotten myself into. He chased me on long runs not only around the city, but to the outer watchtowers and other landmarks. He made me sprint the same short distances over and over again, let me hop on and off boulders dozens of times in a row, made me climb on trees and cross the White River balancing on slippery stones over and over again until I was wet and frozen to the bones. And then he made me stand motionless on one foot, shivering and with closed eyes, until I thought my leg would splinter like a dry twig under my own weight. And he forced me through spars that took hours, practiced attack sequences and defense strategies with me until they were carved into muscles and memory.

And when I lay flat on my back and thought every further move would simply rip my muscles apart, he made me start all over again.

His drill was merciless, but it was also effective. He seemed to sense my impatience and urgency, and although I often cursed him violently, I was also thankful for the time he spent with me. Especially once, when we came back to the city and were greeted by an earshattering roar and two familiar figures dancing around a giant – in the middle of a field of cabbages right across the stables, some frightened peasants watching the scene from a safe distance.

Aela and Ria were hard pressed by the furious behemoth, and Farkas drew his sword at once and charged into the fight with a bellowed curse. I had no chance but to join in as well, unstrapping my bow and joining Aela in trying to get a free shot while the others distracted him in close combat. Adrenaline shot through my veins as I watched the warriors move around their foe. The giant wasn't especially fast, but he swang his treelike club with inhuman strength and entirely unpredictable, forcing Ria and Farkas to stay mostly out of his range and only dart in for swift strikes to his legs and sides. But especially Farkas was incredibly fast, unhindered by his usual heavy armour, and he wielded his blade like lightning strikes. In the end, he managed to cut the sinews in the back of his knee, and when the oversized man dropped down and threw back his head, roaring in pain, Aela yelled from the top of her lungs.

"His throat, now!"

Our arrows flew, finding their target, and when the Giant slumped forwards, Ria jumped on his back and pierced the tip of her greatsword through spine and neck, leaning on it with all her weight until he had stopped twitching.

We gathered around the gigantic corpse, my head hazy with excitement. Aela gave me an appraising look.

"Excellent work, sister," she said with a small smile, and my incredulous gaping made her chuckle. Ria laughed loudly and full of relief, and Farkas gave me a grin and a nod.

"Yeah. Good job everybody," he said gruffly before he knelt down and started to cut the toes from the giant's feet.

The toes. From a giant.

He gathered them in a small leather pouch that was soon dripping with blood. And it smelled horribly.

"What in Oblivion are you doing?" I gagged and had to turn away from the gruesome sight.

He looked up to me, gore smeared over his face, tousled tresses falling into his eyes. He tucked them away with an impatient motion, leaving fresh streaks of dirt. "For Arcadia. We're out here to gather alchemy materials, aren't we? Giant horn is precious, it will fetch us a good price." His grin was boyish.

But despite the excitement of the fight and the short feeling of cameraderie we had shared, the experience had also made me realise that my time in Jorrvaskr had to come to an end. I was healed and perhaps even stronger than before the accident, I had learned a lot and stalled already far too long. There was no reason to stay any longer. When I steeled myself and joined Athis at a table in the courtyard, I realised that I would miss him. I would miss them all, somehow... well, perhaps except Vilkas and Njada.

The mer nursed a bottle of ale and was watching a spar between Vilkas and Aela and Farkas shredding a training dummy apart, but he gave me a lazy smile when I took place across from him.

"You alright?"

"Aye," I muttered nervously. "I'll leave tomorrow, Athis. And I wanted to thank you, for everything. All of you, but... well." I didn't know what to say.

He stared at me, an awkward silence growing between us, and I already contemplated to leave the same moment and spend the night at the inn. Just that I didn't have the coin for a room. But then the mer leant forward, crossing his arms on the table.

"Why now, so suddenly? Is someone waiting for you?"

He knew that wasn't the case. More than once people had asked me if I wanted to send word about my whereabouts somewhere, and every time I had refused. I bit my lip.

"No. But it's about time. High time."

He narrowed his eyes. "And where will you go?"

"Home." It was true, in a way. I took a deep breath. "Please, Athis… I don't wanna argue. Just…"

He propped his chin into his palm. "Impossible. You can't leave like that," he said matter-of-factly.

"And why not, for Kyne's sake?" I had really hoped this would be easier.

He grinned at me. "Because you haven't been drunk yet. You can't live in Jorrvaskr for weeks and not get shitfaced at least once. Impossible." He poked an affirmative index into my chest. "And next weekend is the perfect opportunity. Harvest festival, you know? All of Whiterun will be one big party."

I was speechless. "You want me to stay to see me drunk?"

"No, not simply drunk. Plastered. Wasted. Boozed up that the mead runs out of your ears and you can't walk straight any more. Torvar will be delighted, he's always looking for new drinking buddies."

"You're insane, Athis."

"Yep." He turned away and yelled across the training yard. "Farkas, leave the poor thing alone and come here for a moment, please."

The warrior finished the sequence of his attacks and turned, shining with sweat but a happy grin plastered over his face. When Athis waved at him, he placed his sword in a rack and came over. The mer crossed his arms over his chest, leant back against the table and looked very complacent, but from the other end of the yard, I saw Vilkas watch us with a leery scowl.

"Farkas, as a member of the Circle and as her mentor, would you please tell her that the Harvest festival will be fun?"

He looked confused from Athis to me. "Of course it will." He chuckled. "Last year, Skjor made the Jarl's brother jump from the top of the stairs down into the pool at the bottom. He nearly broke his neck."

Yeah, that sounded like lots of fun. But Athis wasn't finished. "And now you tell her that it would be a shame if she missed it."

"Of course it would." His eyes grew suddenly wide. "Wait, what?"

"She wants to leave tomorrow."

Farkas propped himself heavily on his palms, shaking his head. "But... why?"

I didn't want to argue and sighed wearily. "Please, guys... you know I have to go. I can't stay here forever."

"But why are you in such a hurry suddenly?" Athis' grin was devious, and it made me angry. I pushed back my chair and stood up.

"I said I don't want to argue."

But a firm grip to my shoulder held me back, and I didn't have the heart to jerk out of Farkas' grip when I met his gaze. "Please, Qhourian. You can't just vanish like that after so much time, without a proper farewell. Stay at least for the festival, it will be fun. Promised."

That was exactly what I feared most, a _proper farewell_. But I also felt that it would be cowardish to vanish like a thief in the night. Although it didn't really matter, I didn't want to be remembered as a coward. And it was only two more days. Slowly, I nodded.

But I swore to myself to stay away from the mead.


	5. Questions and Answers

I knew beforehand that it was a bad idea. Parties weren't fun. Far too many people, people who became unpredictable under the influence of alcohol, who talked far too much and in the worst case became confiding and intrusive. Events like this tended to create an odd sense of closeness even between utter strangers that was nothing but an illusion. An illusion that usually led to regrets.

I knew how this went, and I didn't want to take part in it.

Of course it had gotten around that the Harvest festival would be my last evening in Whiterun, and things suddenly became awkward. I had a last training session with Farkas, but we were tense and uptight with each other like never before, no teasing and joking or roaring laughter from him when I cursed his methods with my last bit of breath. And he didn't roughhouse me half as eagerly as I was used to.

On the day of the festival, I kept myself busy and as much as possible out of Jorrvaskr, helping Tilma with the preparations. Fetching fresh vegetables, fruits and bread from the market, I realised that the whole city was indeed in a turmoil. Many of the citizens of the nearby villages had come to attend the large feast at the expense of the Jarl, the inns and streets were full of bards, jugglers and acrobats entertaining the crowd and hoping for their generosity, laughter and music everywhere. Everybody wore his finest attire, the houses were adorned with wreaths and garlands and the air sated with the scent of flowers, cooked food, roasting meat and fresh hay. Even the guards had lost some of their stern discipline, they showed an unusual friendly patience with the army of children rioting through the streets, had friendly greetings and claps on the back for the people they knew.

It was to be a glorious day. And slowly but surely, a foreboding knot of dread formed in my stomach.

The Companions planned to have a feast of their own in Jorrvaskr before they'd later join the crowd in the city, in the inn or on the marketplace where a makeshift stage was standing at the ready for various performances. I made the decision to attend the feast but excuse myself from the later activities. I wanted to get up early, after all – and if it was really as bad as I expected, the Companions wouldn't get to rest at all that night.

I was nervous when Tilma shooed me out of the kitchen, ordering me friendly to join the crowd and have a great evening when the Companions gathered in the main room, all of them in fine casual clothings. At least I wasn't the only stranger, the hall was full with friends and associates from Whiterun and beyond. Even the brother of the Jarl was present, one of the few who wore his usual armour. It seemed he hadn't taken offence at the incident of last year, as he greeted Skjor with an amicable punch.

I stood a bit apart, waiting for the others to take their seats, but when Torvar blundered up the stairs, already with a bottle in hand, he pulled me with him and put me between him and Athis, pressing a tankard that was filled to the brim into my hand. He took in my slightly helpless expression with a wide grin.

"Don't argue," he said, slapping my back and clinking his bottle against my tankard. Athis joined in. It wasn't that I had a choice.

All choices and all oaths to myself were vain when the Companions had already decided how the evening was to proceed.

The meal was regal, Tilma had outdone herself with the delicacies she served. And still it was pleasantly different from all the formal dinners I had ever attended – it was still rustic, the warriors none to fuss more over manners than to make sure that everybody had fun and got filled up. And they had fun, the drinks flowing freely, the usual mead and lighter ale as much as exquisite wine and liquors.

It didn't take long and the well arranged table dissolved, people stood up, cleared the dirty dishes and put a few of the tables out of the way to gain room when instruments were brought out and the music began. There was no bard, but it wasn't necessary. Two people who had sat besides Skjor during the meal and who Athis introduced to me as his sister and brother-in-law had brought a lute and a few drums, and Ria fetched her flute and joined in.

At first people were hesitating to move, only pulling their seats into a half-circle and tapping their feet to the rhythm or clapping their hands, some still with their platters on their knees. And the music was also different from everything I was used to. At the balls I had attended we had orchestras, professional musicians who had played and practiced together for years, with a repertoire elaborate and sophisticated enough for every king's court and made to accompany the formal dances I had learned – either those that passed the women from man to man in burlesque gallantry or those that moulded two bodies together in movements as artistic as suggestive.

I had hated them both. I had hated to have to dance with strangers.

But what we got presented now was so different that I could only watch and listen in awe and amusement. It was much more improvised and impromptu, the trio played tavern and battle songs, ballads and other popular tunes everybody knew and was able to sing along. Everybody but me, it seemed. Ria had an enchanting voice, bright and clear, that rose easily over the noise, and finally Kodlak broke the ice when he stood up and asked Tilma with a small bow to grant her a dance. The elderly woman was all beaming smiles when she laid her palm into his and followed him to the dance floor.

This feast was the first opportunity I witnessed the Harbinger to come out of his quarters and take part in the activities in Jorrvaskr. I still hadn't spoken a single word with him, but during the meal as he sat at the head of the table, framed by Vilkas and the Jarl's brother, our eyes had met, and he had given me a gentle smile. It was... as if he wanted to assure me of his approval that I was here, and it made me feel safe.

And now he led the dance, and it was as if the others had only waited for this signal to join in, the floor soon filled with pairs. This was no formal dance, the couples moved as they saw fit, more or less elegant or clumsy, barely touching or in tight embraces. Usually they tried not to get in each other's way, but sometimes the whole choreography broke up and the crowd formed a circle or a line, grasping the shoulders of whoever was next to them, stomping, jumping and throwing their legs in unison.

Soon nearly everybody was either dancing or standing at the edge of the dancefloor, clapping and waiting for a partner. Only Vignar, the oldest Companion, sat in his armchair near the fire, chatting with a woman standing out because she was the only one wearing an elaborate formal gown, and Vilkas hadn't left his place at the table either, nursing a bottle of mead. His gaze was smouldering, full of tension and barely tamed aggression, but for once I was able to ignore it. The others did as well, after all.

I had calmed down, the nervous tension gone, I realised with some astonishment. The mead had certainly helped with that, my tankard was never empty and I wasn't used to that much alcohol, making my head slightly dizzy. But for the moment, I could forget that this was my last evening in these halls, that I would probably never see all these people again. For the moment, they weren't just _people_ any more. It wasn't that we were close, not like they were among themselves. But I had formed some kind of relationship with them that wasn't determined by power and abuse, and this experience was precious. It was something I would take with me.

I was relaxed and content to watch the crowd and listen to the music, and when Torvar came and asked me to dance, I shook my head with a smile and pointed him to Aela who had just been released by Skjor. He didn't take offense, and neither did Farkas when he tried the same.

I was glad to have stayed for this evening, it would be a longlasting memory. But I wouldn't dance. Too much closeness, too many memories of strangers pressing their bodies flush against mine I didn't want to wake. As long as I only watched, taking in the boisterous cheerfulness around me, I could indulge myself in it as if it was my own.

The voice of Skjor's sister pulled me out of my reverie, announcing another piece of music from their apparently inexhaustible repertoire.

"A song ages old that has gained new actuality recently. The dragons are back, we live at the edge of times and perhaps we will live to see the Dragonborn come. And if we do, we will know how to greet him!"

"Or her!" Torvar heckled, earning a laughter, but then the music set in and it became quiet.

_Our hero, our hero, claims a warrior's heart.  
I tell you, I tell you, the Dragonborn comes.  
With a Voice wielding power of the ancient Nord art.  
Believe, believe, the Dragonborn comes.  
It's an end to the evil, of all Skyrim's foes.  
Beware, beware, the Dragonborn comes.  
For the darkness has passed, and the legend yet grows.  
You'll know, you'll know the Dragonborn's come._

It was a beautiful tune, the women's duet only accompanied by soft arpeggios of the lute, the melody slow and solemn. People stopped to dance as if for once, the words were more important than the music, but they smiled as they listened, sudden quiet quivering through the crowd as long as it lasted.

I had witnessed the return of the dragons and the devastation they could bring over the land. The threat was real, much more than just a legend of old, and still this song was full of confidence, it spoke of hope and strength and that a hero would come who had the power to overcome the darkness.

It was about a mythical figure, but although I heard it for the first time, I made it my own. My very own darkness was waiting for me, I was no hero and no song would ever sing of it. But perhaps I would find the strength to overcome it as well.

This evening would give me strength, the memory of Jorrvaskr and the Companions would give me strength. For the moment we were having a good time, and I was resolved to enjoy it as long as it lasted.

But it crumpled faster than I expected. My head was hazy in the warm, stifling air in the hall, all the voices and the music buzzing through my head like a swarm of bees. As I stood up, I felt Athis' questioning look on me, and I gave him a smile and wiped my forehead as if I was sweating, leaving through the back door to the abandoned training yard. A gust of cold night air hit me with startling strength. There was frost in the air, and the first leaves of the trees standing around the porch and near the stairs to the Skyforge whirled dry and dead over the pavement.

Helgen had been in spring, although I didn't know the exact date, and now my first winter in Skyrim was already rapidly approaching. Suddenly I was sober again, the calm relaxation replaced by anticipation and a sense of foreboding. I had been lazy and stalled, confiding in the comfort of living under a roof and having regular meals, had blocked out the fact that it had to end.

Now with the shock of the cold on my skin the awareness came back with sudden force. Taking a few deep breaths, I returned to the hall and crossed the hall towards the living quarters. I could pack my things just as well right now.

But I was stopped before I had even reached the stairs. The grip around my upper arm was unrelenting, so hard that it would cause bruises as I was hurled around and tossed into a shadowed niche in the back of the hall. Vilkas clutched my wrists in an iron grip and pressed his forearm against my collarbones, pressing me against the wall.

His voice wasn't more than a threatening hiss. "That's it, bitch," he whispered into my ear, his breath unbearably hot on my neck, "now you tell me who you are, what you are and why you're still here. I want answers."

The onslaught of black panic that washed over my senses made it impossible to breathe, to think, to move. I froze, became rigid and stiff.

He was so close, far too close, his teeth bared in a feral snarl as his head bowed down to me. I could smell the mead on his breath and his bodywarmth seep through my clothes as he trapped me with his weight. His right leg forced my feet apart, placing him between them. In this position he could knock me over with a single motion, and at the same time it was like a travesty of intimacy. Observers would perhaps mistake us for a couple caught in passion.

When I didn't answer at once, his grip on my wrists became even firmer. Not much more and he would break them. "I want answers, and I will get them. I want to know what you hide from us."

A shiver of helplessness ran through me. Perhaps this was how it had to end, perhaps I should have anticipated it. I knew he could feel the blank fear that paralysed my limbs, the darkness that took over my thoughts, read it from my face and smell it in the cold sweat forming on my temples. He relished in it, in this power he had over me and came even closer, pressed in further, his pale gaze cruel and smug.

"Speak," he growled.

And this was too much. The last men who had thought they could threaten me just because they were stronger and larger than me had died – the soldiers in Helgen just like the man trying to pillaging my camp.

I had sworn to myself never to be forced again, never again to submit to the alleged power of someone else. I straightened myself against his body.

"Why should I, Vilkas?" I spat into his face, "you're gonna force me?"

I didn't want it to end like this. Everything would have been better, but Vilkas had obviously severe hubris issues. His breath in my face let me gag, but I was no child any more. What he did was wrong, and I only had to convince myself that his power over me was just an illusion.

"If I have to." He looked as if he wanted to strangle me, and that he lost his temper like this gave me back a bit of my self-control. But before I could do or say anything else, a calm voice came from behind.

"Vilkas? What's going on here?"

Slowly he released the pressure of his body, only held my shoulders in a grip that was still equally impossible to escape. He spoke over his shoulder, teeth bared in a false grin.

"We're just talking... sister."

Aela watched the scene quizzically and laid a hand on his shoulder. "Doesn't look like that. You're drunk. Leave her be."

He yanked away from her touch and spun around, a deep crease between his brows. "I'm not drunk!" he growled menacingly, "in fact, I'm the only one keeping a clear head in this house of fools." His voice dropped to a sinister hiss. "Aren't you curious about her, Aela? For weeks she's lived here now, and we know nothing. Not where she comes from, not what she's doing, not where she'll be going. Nothing."

The scene slowly attracted attention, more people gathering around us, most of them Companions. They were just people, curiosity and discomfort in their faces. Nothing personal. The music still played, but it was only a noise in the background, muffled by the maelstrom in my head.

Aela watched us pensively, took in how Vilkas' palm still pressed me against the wall.

"Let her go, Vilkas," she said calmly. He removed his hand hesitantly, but he still stood before me like a wall, looking defiantly into the round.

"I want answers. And I will get them. I want to know what she has to hide."

Aela searched my eyes, sternness in her expression. "He's right, Qhourian. We know nothing about you."

"Isn't a bit too late for that?" I snarled in her direction.

"It's never too late."

But it was Athis who made a step forwards although Njada tried to hold him back with a scowl. He stood before Vilkas, straight and slender, strong brows furrowed in scorn.

"What does it matter, Vilkas? She saved my life when it would have been much easier for her just to let me bleed out. She's a fighter. You know I wanted her to stay, I'm not the only one, and still she will leave tomorrow."

Nobody had ever asked me. _I_ didn't want to stay. I didn't know where I belonged, but it was certainly not Jorrvaskr. These people could easily afford to be generous, with their wealth, reputation and power. It didn't mean that this was my place to stay. I knew this... and Vilkas knew it as well.

His scowl was full of contempt. "So now we take in every bitch that comes crawling from under a rock just because she can skin a bear? A bear she didn't even kill herself? She's even more useless than Ria! We have no idea who this woman is," he spat as if I wasn't there, "no one here has!" His furious gaze turned to me. "You will answer these questions. Now."

Athis became stiff, clenching his fists. He was adorable, but what I felt most was curiosity how this would turn out. The waves would calm as soon as I was gone, they knew each other far too good and for far too long to fight over someone like me. Not seriously.

But the mer was angry, his voice only a hiss. "Where did _you_ come from, Vilkas? What exclusive lineage do you have to show off that you deserve to be a Companion? Tell me, Vilkas... under which rock did you live, you and your brother, before you came here?"

Vilkas blanched, visible even under the warpaint. I could hear him grind his teeth. "We were only toddlers," he pressed out, "and Jergen was a softhearted fool."

"And still he took you in," Athis said dangerously calm, "and when he was gone, Kodlak and many others took care of you. No one ever asked what you are and where you came from. No one ever denied you your place here."

I had to end this and made a step forwards, laying a hand on Athis shoulder. Vilkas' furious gaze tried to impale me when I met it. "This isn't the same, Athis," I said calmly. "I'll answer your questions. You've got a right to know who resides in your hall."

"It's not _his_ hall," Athis scowled, "you don't..." The look I gave him made him close his mouth. No one else intervened. It was as if they had only waited for this scene to happen.

I steeled myself. Suddenly I was freezing, but it was better to end this episode like this than to lie to them. A few hours more or less, a last night under this roof... it didn't matter any more.

"I come from Falkreath originally. At least I was born there, 26 years ago. My family was nothing special, I had a sister and a brother. And concerning the question what I _am_..." I gave him a small, mirthless grin. "Well, some people would call me a courtesan, but I won't lie in these halls. I'm a whore, I've been a whore for the last twelve years. And I only know which end of a piece of steel is supposed to hurt because my master was generous and let me play as long as I did a good job. At least it helped me to escape the block in Helgen."

I looked from face to face, head high and shoulders squared, taking in their stunned expressions as I turned on my heels. There were shock, contempt and disgust, traces of pity and curiosity, all the reactions I had expected. Athis' jaw was slack with bewilderment.

At least now they finally all agreed with me that I didn't belong here.

I retreated into the dormitory, no one following me. I would keep the clothes I wore, they were old and threadbare anyway, but I placed the armour I had used and the weapons I had trained with on the bed I had slept in. The blanket was folded neatly on the foot end, and I eyed it wistfully. But nothing of this was mine, everything I owned was stuffed into the crude satchel I slung over my shoulder. It was light, and still it was uncomfortable after I had tried out the knapsacks the Companions used with their intricate straps and bindings.

When I passed by the group of warriors that still stood like frozen, I handed the Skyforge dagger I had used for so long to Athis, hilt first. "Thank you for this, Athis," I said with a light smile, "but I don't want to risk any further misunderstandings." He took it reluctantly, but he took it without a further word.

Once more I looked into the round. I had no quarrel with them. "Thank you all. You saved my life and took me in for longer than necessary, and for that I'm grateful."

There was no reaction but a satisfied smirk from Vilkas. Only Farkas watched me with pity and confusion in his face, as if he couldn't believe what had happened. I gave him a glance.

"Fun, eh? Just like you promised."

To see him cringe gave me an odd sense of satisfaction.

I crossed the room stiffly, ignoring the stares that followed me. The moment I opened the heavy doors that led outside, the Harbinger's deep voice sounded full and demanding through the room.

"What's going on here?"

I closed the doors behind me. Vilkas would find an explanation. He was good at explaining things.

I felt numb as I made my way down the stairs, numb and frozen from the inside, but I forced myself not to look back. And as I went through the streets of the city, brightly lit and full of laughter and music and people enjoying themselves tremendously, anger crawled into my innards. Anger with myself.

When had I become so naive and gullible? I had fooled myself into a false comfort of which I always knew that it was only on loan, that it wasn't mine. How could I believe I could leave it behind? I'd never leave Cheydinhal behind. This was what I was, what I had always been, useless as everything else. I remembered my _training_ with Farkas. For him, it must have been an entertaining distraction from the real work he did as I fidgeted against him with my borrowed mace and thought he was serious in his efforts to teach me. Borrowed gear, borrowed food, borrowed warmth. Borrowed companionship. Sooner or later, I'd always have to give it back – and pay for it.

As I leant against the dead trunk of the Gildergreen tree and looked down to the crowded market place, a mirthless grin spread over my face. I could just find someone to buy me a drink. Or perhaps someone to take me in for the night. It would be easy, wouldn't it? Find someone who paid for me, and I would pay him back the best I could.

Revulsion with myself shook me and made me heave. I wasn't drunk enough to act on my ideas.

Instead I pushed off the street and shoved myself through the crowd, earning unsympathetic glances for my rude behaviour, and just left. The guards let me out of the gate with a weird look – no one left the festivity so early in the night, quite the contrary, there were still people arriving, late travellers eager to join in.

But I wanted to get out, and I made my way down to the main road with a feeling of which I wasn't sure if it was despair or determination. I would survive this night, somehow. And the next and everything that came after it.

I spent the night in an empty box at the stables, the restless snorting of the horses keeping me awake. But they also spent some warmth, and I was gone again with the first tendrils of light before anyone had seen me. And when I stood at the crossroads that would determine my further way, studying the signs pointing in direction of Riften and Markarth, Windhelm, Riverwood and Ivarstead with a strangely clear head, I suddenly knew where I had to go.

The most important now was to find some equipment, at least a bow and a dagger, and I knew where to find some. I couldn't afford to buy anything essential, the few meager coins I owned barely enough for a single meal at an inn, and I wouldn't steal. But Skyrim was at war, and people died all the time - people with armour and weapons. The tunnels beneath Helgen were full of corpses I had left behind myself, and they weren't accessible from the city itself any more after the collapse of the vaults under the dragon's attack. After I had taken what I could use myself or sell, I would return to Whiterun and gather alchemy ingredients for Arcadia until I could afford the most basic supplies. The least I needed was a warm cloak and woolen clothes to get through the coming months. And I wanted a bedroll, warm and cozy, with a fur-lined hood like the ones I had seen in Jorrvaskr.

Everything was still quiet at the stables as I turned away, not even the carriage driver was up yet and waiting for passengers. Something between melancholy and new vigour filled me as I stepped on the cobblestone road, passed the meadery and turned right on the mountain path towards Riverwood. I couldn't change what had happened, but in the end, it could at least serve as a lesson learned.

The frost of the night made way for a mild, windless day, so warm that the march along the steep path parallel to the White River made me sweat, especially as I fell into a run when I heard the howling of a wolf pack in the distance. No more wolves – their pelts were precious, but I had had enough of them for the rest of my life.

But I had to admit, whatever Farkas had aimed at, the endless runs over the plains had done their purpose. I was barely out of breath when I reached the vicinity of Riverwood, the earshattering noise of a sawmill even drowning out the foaming waters.

I didn't enter the village though, although one day I wanted to come back here and thank the smith and his wife for their selfless care. But not like this, not like a beggar with nothing but the clothes I wore, and so I didn't cross the river until I had left the small settlement behind, stayed in the shadows of the mountains that loomed over it, crowned by the crumpled, but still menacing ruins of a watchtower and a Nordic tomb.

The path up to the entrance to the maze beneath Helgen was winded, curving in serpentines through the sparse forest. With no means to defend myself I didn't dare to leave it and cut through the wilderness though, and when the sun slowly dipped towards the horizon, I had to accept that I wouldn't reach my goal that day. But I found a place to stay for the night with a pair of fishers, a man and a woman living at the edge of the river. Their camp and its surroundings smelled horribly due to lines over lines of drying fish strung up on racks around their fire, but I couldn't be picky. They were quiet people, didn't tell me their names and didn't ask for mine, but they offered me to stay with a friendly smile and traded a piece of bread for some of the berries and tiny, sour wild apples I had found by the wayside. When I curled myself together as close to the fire as possible, the woman handed me a threadbare blanket.

I slept deep and dreamless that night, as if I had never gotten used to a roof over my head and the comfort of a mattress.


	6. Decisions

I woke to the quiet mumbling of people, hushed voices, words I couldn't understand. Slowly my thoughts emerged from the sleepy daze. I was freezing and stiff from lying on the cold, hard ground.

When I opened my eyes, the fisherman hunched beside me, shaking my shoulder gently. He looked concerned.

"People are looking for you. Warriors. They don't tell us what they want."

I startled up, wide awake in an instant. The only warriors I knew were the ones from Jorrvaskr. What did they want? Make me pay belatedly for the time I had spent there?

And why did this small, weather-worn man care at all?

I gave him a weak smile. "Thank you. I will deal with them."

"My fire is yours. Tell me if you need help," he said sternly. He didn't even know my name, we had exchanged less than a dozen sentences the evening before. And still, the law of hospitality was obviously sacred enough to him to offer his assistance against trained warriors and put his own life at risk. I treasured him for his sincerity.

"What's your name, friend?" I asked quietly. He smiled. Exchanging names meant to become an individual to someone else.

"Lars. My wife is Frigge."

"I'm Qhourian. Thank you again, Lars. They won't do no harm." At least I hoped so.

I rose and saw his wife standing on the small path leading down to the river, arguing with two people. People I knew. I groaned inwardly. When Athis saw me standing at the fire, he shoved her to the side and came down with long, determined strides. No smile was in his face, not even the slightest quirk of his lips.

He stopped right in front of me and punched me into the shoulder. "Are you insane or just stupid to run off like that?" he bellowed, clasping my upper arms in a bruising grip, hard enough to leave a mark as he yelled at me. "We thought you'd stay at the inn until everyone's sober again and we could talk, but no, you had to dash off like mad and vanish without a trace, and now Kodlak's worried sick!"

I didn't know why he had come, but I hadn't expected _this_. Who did he think who he was? He dared to rebuke me? I yanked out of his grip and gave him a heavy shove to get him away from me, fuming with anger.

"Who do you think you are, Athis? Talk? About what? You know that I don't have any money and that I couldn't pay for a room. But you probably thought that women like me don't have to _pay_. That I'd rather fuck some drunken dork than to freeze." I shoved him again, my palms against his chest, and he stumbled backwards. "I'm _so sorry_ that Kodlak worried. But you know what? He'll get over it. And perhaps you've both learned not to take in every bitch that comes crawling to your holy hall!"

His arms fell to his side and his face crunched in frustration, but he didn't fight back. I had been right. He didn't want to fight, just make me pay for the disgrace I had brought to the Companions by humiliating me even more. Lars and Frigge stood like frozen, watching us dumbfounded as I snatched my satchel from the ground. I felt like crying, clenched my teeth violently when I turned to the fisherman.

"I'm sorry I disturbed you," I said lowly.

He gave me a small smile. "_You_ didn't."

But an amused chuckle came from where Aela leant against a boulder, a chuckle that evolved into a laughter when I shot her a glare. "Told you you'd need me for more than just to find her, brother," she smirked at Athis who gave her a helpless look. A very smug _told you so_-smirk. "_Call upon her conscience_, what an incredibly stupid idea. Men!"

She shook her head and pushed herself off, patting the mer on the back as she came over. "Stay out of the way. Go hunting, or have a look if that mine near Riverwood we cleared out two weeks ago is still clean. Make yourself useful, I'll meet you tonight." She turned to me and eyed me curiously. "Where are you heading? Don't even try to argue, I'll join you."

I didn't deign her with an answer, just went away, along the path that led upwards into the mountains. It couldn't be that far now. But I heard her steps behind me, accentuating the chaos that whirled through my head. I was helpless and furious, her steps, her entire presence grating on my nerves. I didn't know what she wanted, I didn't know why she had sent Athis away, I didn't know why she accompanied me now. All I knew that it was impossible to get rid of her.

When I fell into a run, she kept easily pace despite the heavy pack on her shoulders. I tried to outrun Aela the Huntress. Laughable.

But she ran past me before I could say anything when I finally stopped in the middle of the street, ready to confront her. "Only half a mile further," she said over her shoulder. And now it was me who followed her.

In a sharp curve, on a small rocky ledge directly at the precipice stood three ancient stones where Aela waited for me. The monoliths were clearly man-made, larger than I and nearly identical with their intricate engravings and heavy bands of steel lining the holes in their tips. They stood in a half-circle, and all that distinguished them were the icons engraved into on their front sections, one showing a running man with a dagger, the one in the centre a robed figure with a staff and the last one a heavy armoured warrior wielding axe and shield.

Aela leant relaxed against the right stone. "The Guardian Stones," she said, "you know about them?"

I just shook my head. It was clear that they were some kind of monument, but I had never heard of them before. And I had given up to try to understand her. At the moment, it seemed as if she had led me here, as if my own decision to go to Helgen was entirely irrelevant.

She pushed herself off and stood beside me, pointing at the stones from left to right. "The Thief, The Mage and The Warrior. Three of more than a dozen Standing Stones that are scattered over Skyrim, but these are the most important. They're said to bless those who have the strength and the will to choose the path of their life. Sometimes people bring their children here to determine their future. But it doesn't work that way... you have to choose on your own."

Her steel-nailed heels crunched on the rock as she spun around. "You can make your choice too, Qhourian."

Very pathetic. I gave her a lopsided, cheerless grin. "My choices have been made for me long ago."

"I knew you'd say that. Unfortunately we don't have a Whore Stone to get you blessed for your further life. One of these will have to do."

When I had knocked out the guard in Cheydinhal and fled, I had thought that was the turning point of my life. I thought it again after I left the tunnels of Helgen, but it had been just a sequence of coincidences that let me survive the dragon. And the Companions – they were just another accident. Again I had to start over because I had been careless in so many regards, and again there was nothing to choose. Helpless fury took over.

She didn't see it coming when my fist landed on her jaw with a satisfying thump, a startled yelp my reward. I grabbed her collar and shoved her back against the Thief Stone.

"I don't know what you want, Aela, but I can only guess that it has something to do with duty and pity and that damned honour of yours. You know what? Stick it where the sun never shines, I don't need it!"

It was probably not the smartest idea to attack a fully geared Companion with nothing but my bare hands, but I didn't care. She didn't either though, staying motionless in my grip, a malicious smirk forming on her face.

"True, Qhourian. You're so full of self-pity, you really don't need mine. And I wouldn't waste it on you anyway."

I wanted to beat this condescending, complacent grin from her face, blinding rage breaking free in a furious scream. I didn't target my punch, just wanted to hit and hurt her just like she hurt me so effortlessly. But she catched my fist before it could strike her again, grabbing my wrist in an iron-hard grip, and with a movement fast like lightning she pushed me away and spun me around, locking my hands behind my back and bending me over, my arms stretched upwards in an angle that I thought it would tear my shoulder joints apart.

She bowed down beside me, her face only inches from mine. Despite her violent treatment, her voice was nearly gentle. "Kodlak sent us to find you. No, he _ordered_ us to find you. And you will listen why I want you to come back and speak with him."

"Why would he?" I hissed, writhing in her grip. "I've never spoken only a single word with him!"

"I don't know. But you know you shouldn't have left like this."

I barked out a scornful laughter. "Aye, I should have left much earlier. But better late than never, right? You'll never see me again."

"And that would be a pity. You've shown potential."

"For what, _Companion_?" I seethed, "to offer some stress relief after a hard day of being honourable?"

She changed her position, one of her hands holding my wrists behind my back, and now the other clenched around my neck, forcing me to my knees. When I knelt before her, she released me and hunched down in front of me. Her voice was full of disgust. "Why do you do that? Debase yourself like that?"

I stared defiantly into her face. "I can't change what I am. I won't lie about it."

Her expression was sinister. "What exactly are you, Qhourian?"

"You should ask your shield-brothers," I snorted, "Vilkas has certainly a very concise idea of what I am."

"Stop that. Leave them out of it. Vilkas is a fool, he didn't listen."

"Of course he did," I flared up, "I'm not stupid! I saw his reaction... and yours."

"No, he didn't. We were shocked, yes, all of us, but he only heard _whore_ and _escaped criminal_. You told us more, though. Much more." She took a deep breath. "You're only 26 although you look much older. Your family is dead. You were only 14 when you became a prostitute. And somehow you broke out and ended up in Helgen. A bunch of Stormcloak rebels was to be executed there when the dragon attacked. You're no soldier, you had probably no business on that block and the Imperials simply didn't care. And it was destroyed four months ago. You've been alone for all this time."

A small chortle escaped her. "You know, Qhourian... we Companions don't have many rules, but one is never to go out on a job alone. We always work with a shield-sibling. Survival is far too much of a gamble without someone shielding your back."

I averted my eyes. I had been careless, and I had no idea that she was so attentive. "Athis was alone when I found him."

"Yes, and he paid for it. Will you be reasonable now and have breakfast with me?"

Gods, this was preposterous! Breakfast! I was hungry like a wolf, the growling of my stomach betraying me. She gave me a playful shove before she settled against the Thief Stone and pulled some bread, cheese and a few apples from her pack, throwing one of them over to me.

I still didn't know what she wanted, but it was impossible to escape Aela the Huntress. I sat down, leaning against the Warrior Stone across from her.

"This is pointless, Aela, even if you were right. But you and I know that it won't change anything."

"And I didn't think that you're such a coward."

My hands balled into fists. "I'm _what_?"

"A coward." Her eyes were hard as granite. "You didn't have a choice, am I right? You were forced into this life. Whatever happened to your family... you were only a child, and you never had a chance to decide anything for yourself. And if it was what you wanted, you'd still be there." Her voice got a persuasive undertone. "But somehow you ended up in Jorrvaskr... call it luck, fate, destiny, whatever. With a Skyforge dagger at your hip. And whatever it is that Kodlak wants to talk about with you, it is probably some kind of offer."

"I don't want an offer from you, Aela," I said coldly, "I don't need your pity."

"See? Cowardly. For the first time you could perhaps make a choice of your own... but you dismiss it before you even know what it is. Instead you spit your _I__'m a whore_ into everyone's face and think that will take the decision out of your hands."

I clenched my teeth. She was right, in a way. But it didn't change anything. I couldn't leave Cheydinhal behind. It didn't even matter if I had been forced, if it was my decision to stay or to flee. It didn't matter how I had become what I was, it stuck to me like a layer of gore. No one would ever look behind it.

"What should I have done, Aela? Lie to you? Vilkas asked, and he got an answer. It's not that I could have defied him."

She propped her chin in her palm, her calm gaze not leaving my face. A small smile quirked her lips. "No. You couldn't have lied, but you don't have to justify yourself."

"Vilkas must have missed that memo."

"He can't tell you what to do... and you underestimate him. You underestimate us all. All I want of you is to speak with Kodlak. Listen to what he has to say, even if it's an offer. And _then_ you can decide and not just run away."

I gave her a mirthless grin. "The next you'll say is that I owe that to you."

"Well, you do. But no, the next will be for you to get dressed."

She fumbled a large package out of her knapsack and threw it into my lap. It was the armour and weapons I had used, even the quiver with the iron arrows was strapped to the top… and there was a sheathe with a dagger. Not Skyforge, but fine, sharp steel.

"This isn't mine!"

She threw her hands in the air. "Gods, could you please stop to argue! The armour doesn't fit anyone else and no one but you uses a mace. So just take it and shut up, okay?"

Suddenly I understood why Farkas said, albeit jokingly, that she was scary. She wore the title _The Huntress_ for nearly thirty years already... she wouldn't start now to let her prey escape, and she managed to look scary even while she was chewing lazily on a piece of bread.

For a moment we both chewed on our loaves of bread in a silence that was nearly companionable. She endured my scrutiny without emotion, finishing her last bites and finally rose in a fluid motion. "Come on, if we take the shortcut over the mountain we can be home tonight."

Home? I swallowed heavily as I stood up and started to put on the cuirass. Her lips twisted impatiently when I turned slowly to her, only half of the buckles fastened.

"Why did you send Athis away, Aela?"

She stayed silent for a moment, regarding me pensively. As she made a step towards me, putting her hand on my shoulder, her expression had suddenly a gentleness that seemed strange on her. "Because he's a fool. And the last you need now is a man telling you what to do, even if it's just a mer who'd never do you any harm."

Her hand came up, her thump wiping away the tears that streamed over my face. She patted the back of my head when I muffled the sobs that shook my body against her shoulder.

"Nobody will force you to do anything you don't want. No need to be afraid."

"I'm not afraid!"

She chuckled, holding me at arm's length. "That's good to hear. But if you don't start moving soon, I'll bring Farkas to take you to Whiterun. He's worse than Athis, believe me!"

Well, that was a real threat. The thought to be carried through the city and into Jorrvaskr slung over the shoulder of that brute made me giggle under my tears. I knew he wasn't only totally capable of doing so, he'd also not hesitate for a single second and have fun with it. And despite all our training, I'd never be able to outrun him. He cheated, after all.

* * *

"Harbinger." I bowed my head respectfully at the old man who sat at a table in the antechamber of his quarters, a journal, ink and quill in front of him.

He gestured us to come in with a smile, putting the booklet away. "Thank you, Aela. I knew I could count on you. Please, tell Tilma I need dinner for two today, will you?" She retreated with a friendly nod.

"Have a seat, Qhourian."

When I sat in front of him, he eyed me apprehensively. "We should have done this earlier. Get to know each other."

He was the Harbinger of the Companions. He had better things to do than to get to know a stray that one of his warriors had taken in. More important things.

"It's an honour, Harbinger," I muttered, "but I don't understand..."

"Why I sent the best tracker in all of Skyrim to find you? Well, it wasn't my idea, Athis would have gone anyway. I just gave them... a little push."

"But why?" I blurted out, "why all this fuss about me?"

He leant back in his chair, his hands laying relaxed on the armrests. He had nothing frightening about him, and still he emitted a serenity of age, wisdom and experience that was awe-inspiring. But his smile was gentle, and his eyes were kind and honest. The way he looked at me... I wasn't sure why, but I felt that I could trust him.

"Many reasons, and I will tell you about them later. But first, I want you to tell me how you came here. And why you ran away."

He wanted me to tell him my life. I met him for the first time ever, and he had no qualms to make such a demand. He met my incredulous gaze with a gentle chuckle.

"I want to get to know you, girl. Nothing you say now will leave Jorrvaskr. Nothing you already revealed will leave Jorrvaskr. Promised."

As if Vilkas and Njada wouldn't use every opportunity to point out how right they had been. As if a drunk like Torvar could keep a secret. As if someone as sweet and innocent as Ria would know when to keep her mouth shut.

But he leant forwards, his eyes piercing into my wary expression. "I promise. Get it off your chest."

And I did. I told him everything, his calm gaze spurring me on, and once I had started it seemed I couldn't stop again. I told him of my family and their death, the orphanage and how I came to Cheydinhal, my education there and my _work_. And how I fled, about Helgen and what happened afterwards. It took ages, and he never interrupted me, not a single comment, not a single question. Only once, when Tilma brought our dinner, beaming when she saw me, he interrupted the torrent of words that flowed out of me briefly. My food was long cold when I had finished, and I felt empty and numb.

And in a strange way incredibly relieved.

It was long quiet between us, Kodlak pouring us some wine and handing the goblet to me. My throat was raw and dry, and I took it thankfully. He circled his own goblet between his fingers and stared into the ruby liquid.

Finally he looked up and catched my gaze. "And why did you run away?"

I nearly choked on my wine. "I didn't run away! I had to go anyway…" My voice trailed off. Of course I had run away, he knew it just as well as I.

His voice was gentle. "I think this is a misunderstanding, Qhourian. See… you've worked hard during the last weeks. You let Farkas bully you through a treatment that was much worse than what he grants the other whelps. You've been helping wherever you could. Many of our members have taken a liking to you. We thought… well, we were of the impression you wanted to stay. That you want to apply for membership."

I was speechless for a moment. "You thought _what_?"

"That you prepare to join us."

I shook my head unbelievingly. "But Kodlak… I'm no warrior. I'm just… of course I didn't want to _join_!"

"Well, Aela says you're a fabulous archer and Farkas that you're not so bad with the mace. You just told me how you fought for your life more than once. Why do you think you're no warrior?"

I groaned, burying my face in my palms. This had taken a direction that was as insane as awkward, and I wished the ground would open up and swallow me.

I glanced up to him. "I hit a giant from twenty feet away. I don't think that's sufficient to join the Companions."

"No, but it's a start. And you can do much more than that. You're not so bad at keeping yourself alive either."

"Yes, and _that's_ what I prepared for, and I'm truly thankful for Farkas' help." I wanted to end this uncomfortable conversation, shifted my satchel into my lap and twisted the strap nervously. "This was indeed a misunderstanding. I'm sorry… I should have been clearer in declaring my intentions. I'm sorry I wasted your time."

"Stop being sorry. Did you like to be here?" he asked curtly and with a new authority in his voice.

"Y... yes, of course," I stammered. _Apart from Vilkas._ I didn't say it out loud.

"And what would you like better, stay out there and freeze to death or stay here and make yourself useful?"

I pressed my lips into a stubborn line. "I will make it through the winter. There's still time enough. And..."

"You love to argue, don't you?" A small grin quirked his lips, but the seriousness didn't leave his expression. "How about you try it out? A scholar, a friend of us, has located another fragment of Wuuthrad. Somehow it ended up in an old Nordic tomb, and someone has to go and get it."

My eyes shot wide. "You want me to retrieve a fragment of Wuuthrad?"

He chuckled. "No, I want Farkas to retrieve it. But he wants you to back him up as a shield-sister. It was his idea."

I was stunned, my mouth opening and closing again several times, my brain unable to form coherent words.

Kodlak leant forwards, crossing his arms on top of the table. "I won't lie to you, Qhourian. You need to learn a lot. You can take care of yourself – mostly. But people are not made to live like beasts in the wilderness, and you have a lot of talents that would be a shame to be wasted." A small grin flickered over his face, gone again as soon as it emerged as if he had made a joke that was only for himself. "But you have to learn to act in a team. You have to learn some trust - in yourself first and foremost, and then in your fellows. You will make mistakes, but you'll have a chance to learn from them too. If you try it."

He fell silent. We just sat there, deep in thought. I had to admit, I felt comfortable at the side of this old man. And I had to admit that I would miss Jorrvaskr. The light-hearted chatter, the shared meals, the feasts flowing with mead and ale and stories every time somebody came back from a job. The safety I had felt here, for the first time... ever. These people cared for each other. But how could I belong to this group? I came here as an outsider, a burden with nothing to give back.

But perhaps this offer was my opportunity to give something back, at least a tiny bit.

I bit my lip. "Will I be obliged to stay afterwards?"

"Gods, no! No one here will force you to do anything. See it as a trial - you try out how it is to work with a shield-brother, and we get to know you better. Farkas is easy to travel with, he's reliable and doesn't talk much. And he's a beast in battle, though not exactly what I'd call subtle... no silent killing from afar with him around. But you will go along together just fine."

I made up my mind. This was a chance I'd only get once, I wanted to make myself useful, and... I had spent a lot of time already with the man, and not once had he come closer than I was comfortable with. Somehow I felt that I could trust him.

I gave Kodlak a hesitant smile. "Okay."

He snorted out a laughter. "Just like that? No further argument?"

He made me grin. "No. When will we leave?"

"You settle that with Farkas directly. He will brief you."

I recognised a dismissal when I heard one. The old man looked tired and worn as he slumped against the back of his chair. But his grip around my wrist was firm and strong, and his smile appeared strangely satisfied.

* * *

I was ready to leave long before sunrise - easy after a sleepless night, but I was far too flustered to get some rest, despite the ale I had with Farkas and Aela the evening before. It had been a huge relief to discover that Vilkas had left Jorrvaskr for a couple of days, and his brother had just given me a good-natured pat on the back when I asked when he wanted to leave. "With dawn," was his short answer, "this once I'll pack for you. Just get up in time."

But in the morning he only gave me an astonished raised eyebrow when he emerged from the living quarters, yawning heartily, rolling his shoulders and stretching the sleepiness from his limbs. He didn't even take breakfast, just stuffed an apple and a sweetroll into a pouch, handed me my pack and left through the front door without looking back. Seemed he wasn't exactly a morning person. Aela was the only other person present... in fact, she didn't look as if she had slept at all yet, more as if she came directly from a hunt, her hair tousled and stains of blood on her hands. "Safe travels," she said with an encouraging smile as I set about following Farkas.

My pack was heavy, but it was also full of things I was eager to carry around because they were so incredibly useful, and once I had adjusted the straps it wasn't quite so uncomfortable any more. The knapsack itself was filled with rations that would last us over the following days if we didn't find any easy prey, dried meat, dark bread, hard cheese and nutritious but crumbly biscuits made of cereals, nuts, dried berries and honey, alongside with some emergency potions, bandages, salves and a small, incredibly sharp knife. There were some extra arrowheads, a map, a whetstone, a spare bowstring, a flintstone, a few candles and a spare woollen tunic. A bedroll wrapped into thin oiled leather was strapped to the top, together with a cloak made from wolf fur, the edges lined with the wonderfully soft pelt of a sabrecat. When my fingers brushed reverently through it, Farkas gave me curt nod. "It will freeze tonight, and those tombs are bloody chilly as well. You're useless when you're cold."

I felt incredibly well equipped.

The tomb, Dustman's Cairn, was located two days west of Whiterun – two days on foot. Not that I minded walking, but when I asked Farkas why we didn't take horses, he gave me an uneasy look. "Waste of money," he grumbled, "those tombs are big, you can easily spend a day or more in there. And when you get out again, the beasts are either gone or dead." Seeing his expression I had the distinct feeling that he simply didn't like riding. He frowned when he saw that I couldn't suppress a smirk.

Kodlak had been right – Farkas was easy to travel with, and the journey of the first day was pleasantly uneventful. A few times we had to defend ourselves against wild animals, but what would have tested me to my limits if I had been on my own was merely an inconvenience as a duo. It was a whole new experience.

Another whole new experience was to watch Farkas in combat and to fight together with him, especially when some foolish bandits made the last fault of their miserable lives and tried to ambush us. Somehow he noticed them much earlier than I, four ragged figures hiding behind a group of rocks. I would have never been able to take on them all on my own, and an ambush would have been my certain demise. Farkas had no such concerns, though – he touched my shoulder briefly to get my attention and told me to stay in the back, a feral grin curling his lips. And then he ran off with rattling armour, unsheathing his sword and shouting expletives, a berserk that came over them like a force of nature.

Not exactly subtle. And he wore such a happy grin plastered over his face that I couldn't help but join him in the fight with the same enthusiasm, peppering our enemies with arrows.

I felt some pity for those poor brigands in their rags and hides when the last one tasted the tip of his blade right in his stomach. They either had no idea what they had gotten themselves into, or they were _very_ desperate.

When it was over he took a deep breath, turned to me and grinned through the blood and the dirt on his face, his dripping sword still in one hand, something glittering in the other.

"Look what I found! Something pretty for the lady who stays noble in the back while the man does the work!"

Seeing his impish smile, I couldn't help but laugh. Wordless I went over to the heavily armoured bandit chief and pulled my arrow from his throat. "Farkas, you're an excellent distraction for _my_ way to work, and I think this guy was entirely aware that it wasn't you who killed him. So, sharing the loot is only just. What's it you have there exactly?"

It was an amulet of Mara, the goddess of love and compassion. The poor guy who wore it was obviously on a courting mission, but whoever he had in mind was probably better off without the former owner. I stuffed it into my pack, perhaps I'd be able to sell it for something useful. And we both had to laugh when we imagined how one of these miserable thugs would try to find a wife to share his way of life.

It felt good to share a laugh over some silliness. After he was fully awake, Farkas became an entertaining companion, he had a way to let me forget my troubles, all the questions I would have liked him to answer and instead to concentrate on whatever lay directly before us. And he made me laugh, or at least smile with his witty awareness of everything going on around him, his comments always spot on, sometimes snarky, but never offending. But he was obviously happiest when he could get into action without having to think too much, no matter if it was against a couple of sabrecats suddenly charging at us from a hollow in the ground or just a small pack of skeever that he impaled on his blade one by one. And although I often felt his gaze on me, sometimes even during combat, he never told me what to do and never came too close.

As if he trusted that I knew what I was doing, that I would have his back just like he had mine.

Traveling with him felt good.


	7. The Trap

It was a good day, this first part of our trip, carefree and easygoing. I was used to have my senses on my surroundings and trained enough to keep pace with Farkas' long strides. When the sun touched the horizon and we stopped at the foot of a hill, in a small hollow where we'd be sheltered from the winds, we had already made more than half of the distance to the Cairn.

After we threw off our packs, the first I did was to climb the hill, not caring for Farkas' incomprehensive expression. I wasn't used to such a sunset, it was so different from the dense forests around Falkreath. They were familiar, I had known them for all my life, their dusky tightness made me feel safe. But in the forest, the senses of smell and hearing were at least as important as my eyesight – everything could hide behind a wall of trees or in the dense thicket of the bushes.

This was so different, and although I had often been outside of Whiterun, to be out here in the wilderness far from every civilisation was something entirely different again. The plains were wide, endless vastness one could get lost in, the horizon so far away. To have a horizon all around me was something entirely new altogether. And the light and the colours were different, no green-tinged twilight, only gleaming, blinding brightness. The sun stood as a flaring orange ball, sending tendrils of golden light over the sky and the land and miraculously shrouding it in long shadows at the same time, while on its opposite side the pale crescent of Masser emerged.

It was beautiful. But Farkas was oblivious to my awe, already unstrapping the tentpoles from his pack and starting to erect it, and I knew I should help him. I watched him, the naturalness with which he set up our camp, he had done this clearly hundreds of time before.

But for the first time, it was _our camp_.

Suddenly the excitement of the day was gone, the constant alertness together with the feeling that we could rely on each other that had built over the small fights we had fought together this day. I realised that I didn't know this man. We had spent time together, yes. We had laughed together, he had taught and trained me. Despite his intimidating appearance, he seemed kind, sometimes even gentle. But I didn't know him, and now I had to spend the night with him.

Anxiousness flowed suddenly through my veins and coiled in my stomach. Not quite fear yet… more a tinge of cautious suspicion. Unconsciously I clenched my hand around the grip of my mace. He sat on his haunches, rummaging through his pack.

But he felt my stare, his hands stilled, and slowly he lifted his gaze to my face. Emotionless, stoic... unusual for him. He wasn't oblivious at all, sensed the change in the atmosphere and became tense himself.

"You okay?" he asked gruffly.

I snatched my bow, turning away briskly. I had to get away from him, if only for a little while. To clear my thoughts.

"I go hunting," I said curtly.

"But it will be dark soon."

The look I gave him silenced him.

Swiftly a rabbit fell to my arrow, only a snack, but it would give our meal a bit more substance. A second one vanished into its burrow before I could let the arrow fly. I didn't mind. I just wanted to be for myself, try to bring some order into the chaos of my mind, and instead to roam further I settled myself against a boulder and tried to find my inner calm by watching the sunset. The fiery ball dipped slowly beneath the horizon, the sky above me becoming first dark blue and then black, sparkling with stars.

So much had happened during the last days. Freedom had meant for me not to be able to do what I wanted, but to be free of the demands of others. This was the freedom I had strived for when I fled from Cheydinhal, what I had cherished during the months alone. And now, suddenly new choices and possibilities had been presented to me where I had expected them last. They came with new responsibilities and new demands, but they were also a chance. Perhaps the biggest chance I'd ever get.

So many questions burned in my mind. Why did they care, why did Kodlak make this offer, why did Farkas take me with him and not one of his shield-siblings, _why all this fuss?_ But if I wanted answers, honest answers, I'd have to give something of myself. I'd have to give some trust. I hadn't been afraid during the night with the fisherman and his wife. There was no reason to be afraid now.

A movement in the corner of my eye catched my attention, and a gasp broke free when I realised what I saw. A silhouette over the mountains to the north, their peaks already covered in snow. A black shadow, clearly visible against the not entirely darkened sky, huge wings gliding on the wind, a body coiling through the air like a snake. I'd recognise it everywhere, the distinct movement pattern of a flying dragon.

He was too far away to see if he was hunting or to hear these screeching shouts that ached in my bones, but the memories filled the gaps easily. I knew there were more of them than just the black one that had destroyed Helgen, there had been sightings and attacks, the stories spreading like wildfire through the province. I rose hastily and hurried back to our camp where Farkas stood at the fire, staring into the same direction.

He pointed at the mountains when he heard my steps. "You see that?" There was excitement and eagerness in his voice.

"Yes," I said curtly, ignoring the menacing sight and starting to skin the rabbit. He turned slowly, examining my expression before he sat down across from me. I kept myself busy, throwing pieces of meat into the simmering stew, avoiding his gaze.

"Would you tell me? About the dragon?" His voice was low.

I startled. "The dragon from Helgen?"

"Yes."

I tried. I told him of this impenetrable blackness that surrounded the beast like a shadow, of the stench of rotten flesh and molten iron, that he was as long as Jorrvaskr from snout to the tip of his spiked tail and at least equally wide when he spread his wings. I told him of the fire the monster had released, the dragonfire that melted stone and reduced people to heaps of ash in mere seconds, how whole buildings collapsed under the impact of his weight.

I tried, but I was a bad narrator. He was only fascinated, nothing of the terror I had witnessed spread over to him.

"You think it's possible to kill them?"

I snorted out a bitter laughter. "There were soldiers, Farkas, a whole lot of them. Archers, people with magic. And in the end, everybody was either dead or had fled, and the city lay in ruins."

He shovelled two portions of stew into wooden bowls and handed one to me, and for a moment, we ate quietly. Until he held the spoon with the hot mouthful he had just blown on motionless in front of his face, staring into the distance. "We would have done better," he said pensively.

"You'd like to try it?" I asked incredulously. Gods, I had put ideas into his head. Bad ideas.

"Of course," he answered with a boyish grin. "Vilkas always says he has killed one of every species in Skyrim. He'd die for the opportunity to kill a dragon."

I cringed under his words, and he watched me with a trace of astonishment before his face fell into a frown. Slowly he shoved the spoon into his mouth, chewing and swallowing even slower.

But my appetite was spoiled with the mention of his brother, and I put the bowl to the side. How could these men be brothers? And twins, at that?

Farkas didn't talk much, but when he opened his mouth, he did it without thinking. I knew he didn't mean any harm with his remark, it wasn't his fault that I was so bristle. Vilkas didn't talk much either, but when he opened his mouth, he did it _never_ without thinking. He knew how to use words like that enormous Skyforge blade he had always strapped to his back, always cold and calculating, dealing as much damage as possible.

Farkas shifted awkwardly, first chewing on a bite of bread, then on the inside of his cheek. "He isn't always such an ass, you know?" he blurted out.

I stared at him surprised, not having expected him to bring it up at all. But perhaps we had to get this over with. Perhaps I'd get some answers from him. I steeled myself.

"No, of course not. Only to me," I said coldly.

"He was just curious! But he shouldn't have pressed you... not like that."

"That wasn't simple curiosity, and you know it. He could have just asked, you know." A shiver ran down my spine when I remembered how he had pressed me against the wall. The weight of his body, his breath, this closeness.

Helplessness stood in Farkas' face. "But you never told anyone anything, not even Athis, and we hoped you'd open up a bit... during the festival. We were all curious..."

The stammered sentence hit as if he had slapped me. He averted his gaze when I stared him down. "Are you saying you planned to make me drunk to make me talk?"

"No!" He buried his forehead in his palms. "Gods, I knew I'd mess this up." He lifted his gaze to me. "He just wanted... Vilkas doesn't trust people easily, especially when he doesn't know anything about them. In a way... he just wanted to protect us."

From _me_? That kind of paranoia was laughable. And not funny at all.

"It was just a few hours more and I would've been gone anyway."

"Qhouri, please..."

"Don't call me that!" I said sharply, making him flinch back. "Your brother has been an ass since the first time I met him. Perhaps I deserved it, I don't know how you Companions tick, but what did he gain by that apart from ruining the evening for me? It was just a few lousy hours!"

"But we didn't want to let you go!"

"And why not? Why in Oblivion do you care?" I yelled at him.

And he yelled back. "Because you were alone! You were alone and starved and your equipment was pathetic when you found Athis and alone and nearly dead when the hunters found you. You had no contact to anyone during the weeks you were in Jorrvaskr. You only worked like a maniac all the time..."

"Yes," I sneered, "because some people have to work if they want to survive, especially if they _want_ to live alone. Believe me, Farkas... your training was a walk in the park compared to..." I didn't finish the sentence. _Everything_ had been a walk in the park compared to the years before.

"Yeah, that's what I thought too," he muttered.

_"What?"_

He straightened himself with sudden determination, and he didn't avoid my gaze any more. "I didn't want to speak about this with you. I don't have the right... you don't have to justify yourself. But we really thought you'd join us. We thought you'd fit in... some of us, at least. Athis of course, and after I worked with you I thought so too. And Ria. But afterwards..." A small grin curled his lips. "Well, after Aela made us understand what exactly you had told us... you know what she said?"

I shook my head.

He chuckled. "She said _How can someone with such a fucked up life be so incredibly stubborn?_"

"I'm not stubborn!"

A low laughter came from him, deep and rumbling. "Oh yes, you are. You proved it already during our sessions. I really tried to push you over your limits... but you just wouldn't give up. You didn't even complain."

I couldn't help but give him a grin. "Oh yes, I did. You just didn't take me seriously."

"That wasn't complaining, that was just... letting off steam. We had fun, out there." He leant forwards, propped himself with his elbows on his knees. "I tell you what I thought, Qhouri." He emphasised the nickname, and this time I didn't complain. "I thought that you're incredibly stubborn and strong and _nice_ for someone with such a fucked up life. And that you'd fit right in exactly because of that. And before you ask: I took you along on this job to test this theory. Okay?"

It took me a few minutes for this to settle in. If I had learned anything so far about him, it was that he meant what he said. And... what would he gain by lying to me? The way he had yelled at me and made fun of me in the same breath... there was no pity in him, no deceit. He meant what he said.

He thought that I was strong enough for them. And _nice_. Whatever that meant exactly.

Slowly, a grin spread over my face as I eyed him curiously. "What will Vilkas say when he gets to know that we're after this piece of Wuuthrad together?"

He returned my grin. "He will be furious."

"And... you take the chance?"

He watched me pensively. "You said you had siblings too. Have you never fought?"

"Of course we have."

"Thought so, because that's what siblings do. Vilkas will be mad at me, and then he'll get over it. He always does. That's what siblings do too, you know?"

I had the feeling that he didn't just speak about his brother.

He gave me a small smile. "Get some sleep, Qhouri. I'll wake you when I get tired."

Somehow, the thought to let him watch over my sleep wasn't so alarming any more.

It was still dark when I woke all on my own, only a faint gloom on the eastern horizon announcing the new day and the golden glow of the coals playing around the silhouette of Farkas' broad frame. He peeked over his shoulder and met my gaze before I even moved.

"You didn't wake me," I said accusingly, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I felt perfectly rested.

He gave me a short smile. "You needed it more than I."

"Don't make that a habit," I frowned at him, "I can take watches just like you."

He grinned. "Okay. Next time you stay up for the night."

Next time. It made me smile how he said that.

Dustman's Cairn was a pit in a hill, the narrow elevation hollowed out and the walls of the hole stabilised by masonry. If the purpose of the construction was not to make the entrance to the tomb too obvious in the flat landscape, it was effectively counteracted by the huge standing stones erected at its edge, forming a prominent landmark visible from far away.

We knew at once that something wasn't right. The remains of a small campfire littered the trampled snow outside of the entrance.

"Seems it was a good idea I didn't wait for my brother to come here," Farkas said thoughtfully. "Let's be cautious, we're probably not alone."

Of course we'd be cautious, and of course we weren't alone, but the beings we encountered were clearly not the same who had camped outside. Farkas scratched his head as he mused over the significance of the devastation in the first room we entered. Someone had been digging in front of a large sarcophagus, and the offerings to the dead usually stored on shelves or in urns were carelessly thrown to the ground.

Whoever went through the vast, dusty halls before us had disturbed the dead rather recklessly. We stumbled over broken coffins and cracked urns all over the place, and their former owners weren't amused at all. Farkas had warned me of the draugr, undead ancient Nord warriors, kept in their unholy state of unlife by a power nobody knew where it came from. When we encountered the first one of them roaming restlessly through the dark corridors, decayed, withered muscles dragging the body clumsily along but an eerie blueish glow in the sockets of his eyes betraying his determination to stand against any kind of intruder, I questioned the burial habits of my people for the first time. The ancient, rusty but huge sword the living corpse swung in my direction when he spotted us just shook my beliefs even further. The Nords of ancient times should have thought of cremation.

But with the two of us we were able to handle the onslaught, Farkas rushing with furious yells and such obvious enthusiasm into every fight that I had no opportunity to develop something like fear. The draugr were strong but slow, and I took either care of archers he couldn't reach fast enough or darted around him and attacked the living corpses from behind. It didn't take long for us to fall into a kind of routine, despite the excitement and tension every doorway and every twist in the tomb's long, winded corridors caused.

We progressed steadily deeper and deeper into the tomb. Like Farkas had predicted, the air became chilly and moist, and I was glad for the cloak I unstrapped now from my pack and slung it around my shoulders. Until we met a dead end in a large, circular chamber that looked nearly cosy, brightly lit by torches and braziers, furnished by stone benches and tables that were remarkably intact and clean, and no coffins or burial niches with crumpling skeletons or mummies anywhere to be seen. The most remarkable item in the room was the enchanting table standing in a corner, but it was covered by such a thick layer of dust that it obviously hadn't been used for ages. Farkas furrowed his brows warily, especially when we had to realise that the massive iron grate blocking the only exit had no obvious means to open it. The whole room reeked of trap.

But we were exhausted, and as we knew nothing lived - or unlived - behind us any more, a little rest seemed to be well deserved. After a sparse meal with some bread, cheese and dried meat, we began to explore more thoroughly. The room had some small alcoves crammed full of urns, shelves and grave goods we hadn't inspected yet.

And then I demonstrated my incredible stupidity. It wasn't inexperience or imprudence and not only curiosity, it was simple foolishness. Finding a switch in one of the niches, I had nothing better to do than to _use__ it_. Without giving an alert beforehand, without thinking about what could happen.

What happened was that the closed gate opened, the bars vanishing with a rattle into the floor. And in front of me, iron bars thundered down and trapped me in the tight space between shelves and urns, and the cursed switch suddenly refused to move a single inch. I yelped, angry at myself, and Farkas stopped to inspect another corner and turned to me. A broad grin spread over his face.

"Now look what you've gotten yourself into."

"Get me out of here. Please!"

"Don't panic. I'll find..."

But he didn't finish the sentence and tensed suddenly, ready to attack, a gesture beckoning me to keep quiet. A deep crease formed between his brows as he turned his head to the newly opened gate, his nostrils flaring. A low, deep growl came from his throat.

And then they were there, half a dozen people flooded the room and surrounded the warrior, cornered him with his back against the grate I cowered behind. A heavily armoured Nord with a huge silvery axe on his back seemed to be the spokesman, his intentions clear when he unsheathed his weapon with a murderous glare.

"You die now, dog!"

A woman standing in the back with her bow drawn interfered, an excited lilt to her voice. "Which one is that? Krev will want to know."

"Doesn't matter. He wears that armour, he will die."

These weren't ordinary bandits, and this was indeed a trap. They knew him... perhaps not his name, but that he was a Companion. The distinctive armour with the intricate wolf design had given him away, and they had come solely to kill him. Six against one... Farkas was strong, and he was a trained warrior, but this was too much, even I could see that. Cold sweat of panic ran down my spine.

Slowly the circle around him closed in, weapons were drawn, pure hate in the faces of our attackers.

"This will make an excellent story," one of the women growled.

But Farkas just stood there, slightly bent over, and he took no action to defend himself, didn't even unsheathe his sword, and his shield lay discarded on a table nearby. I wanted to slap myself for the foolishness that had brought him into this mess, but the fact that neither he nor his foes acknowledged my presence at all made me hug the wall behind me and stay quiet, watching the events unfold before my frightened eyes.

"None of you will live to tell it." His voice had dropped, more a daunting growl than human speech. I waited for him to spring into action, to let out his typical attack roar, but instead to draw his weapon, his hands only nestled nervously at the straps of his armour. He held himself as if he was in pain, bent over, and I could see his back heave under heavy breathing.

His weird behaviour scared me even more.

What in Oblivion was going on? Was he already hit, by an arrow or a poisoned dart? But the approach of his opponents slowed down, as if they hesitated to come closer, and I saw eyes grow wide... with disbelief and fear.

It was hard to believe what happened then. A man in steel armour and with a finely crafted sword one second – and in the next moment he doubled over, spasming erratically, he grew and changed until he towered over his foes, his armour falling away and the low growl from his throat becoming a roar that had no resemblance with his usual voice any more. A whirling blur of fur, claws and fangs mauled our assailants into shreds nobody would recognise as human any more.

I didn't know how long it took, in my mind the rampage only lasted seconds. I held my breath and watched, wide-eyed and petrified.

It was over in mere moments, and nothing lived any more but the enormous beast... and I. Yet. He – it? – Farkas? – let out a deafening howl which echoed deep into the tunnels as if it wanted to announce its presence, then it turned to me. Gleaming eyes locked into mine, golden with specks of reddish, like copper, flaring with fury and bloodthirst and hunger – and still, as he watched me intently, cowering against the back wall of the little room, the bars still between us, there was more than just feral savagery. This monstrous gaze had no similarity with Farkas' light blue eyes, and still there was a glimpse of silver... a glimpse of reason.

They weren't human, but they weren't only beastly either. The last time I had looked into the eyes of a wolf, I had seen nothing but the urge to kill me. This... he was different, and somehow I wasn't particularly afraid. Stunned, yes. Crazed, shocked and disbelieving. But not as panicked as I should have been when a werewolf two feet larger and at least thrice my weight set his eyes on me.

What I had just witnessed was so incredible, so beyond any sense and experience, I was too stunned to be afraid. And somehow, although the monster with its stained black fur, menacing fangs and claws still dripping with blood and gore had nothing human in appearance, I simply knew it was still the gentle brute who had fought by my side, that he was somewhere in there and that he wouldn't turn against me.

But finally the wolf – werewolf – turned away and vanished through the newly opened door. For an endless moment I feared to be left alone and trapped, but then the bars raised, and Farkas entered the room again – the Farkas I was used to, shirt and pants torn at the seams and hanging around him in rags.

With a sigh of fatigue he sat down on one of the stone benches, burying his forehead in his palms, and seeing me come out of my hiding place, an unstable smile touched his lips.

"Sorry, Qhouri. I didn't want to… scare you."

I held a careful distance to him, but I managed to answer his smile weakly. "I'm not scared. Not much. I should be… but I'm not. Everything went so fast…" A slightly hysterical giggle broke from my throat. "I was much more afraid before you... changed. When I thought they'd kill you."

His eyes sought mine.

"Not sure if I have the right to tell you this, but you deserve an explanation."

He fell silent for a moment, then pulled himself together. "You know what you've just seen?"

"You're a… werewolf?" It felt strange to put it in words.

"Yes. Some of us are, we can be like wild beasts. Fearsome."

Fearsome, yes. The sudden realisation hit me like the fist of a draugr. I had lived in a den of beasts. For weeks. Beasts who could have mauled me to pieces but had tended to me as if I belonged there, who had helped me to regain my health and to become strong again. A pack of wolves.

As a child, my father had told us stories about wolves raising human children like their own whelps, making them part of their pack. They became wolves in everything but appearance, living like them, communicating like them, unable to get back into the society of men if they were found. They either died, or they returned to what they considered their true families, as if they'd find the safety and closeness they were used to nowhere else.

Werewolves however were seen as monsters roaming through the wilderness, humans who had lost their humanity entirely, brutish, mindless beasts killing everything in their way. I had just witnessed the exact opposite. This beast hadn't been mindless – and it hadn't lost its humanity. Not entirely, at least.

Many titbits of information I had picked up during the last weeks now suddenly fell in place. Kodlak's remark about the beast in Farkas; Vilkas talking about the blood haunting him in a conversation I accidentally overheard – I had thought he spoke about the blood of his foes he had spilled; Aela's palpable exhaustion some mornings. The strange bond I felt between them. Perhaps even Vilkas' unjustified protectiveness and fierce aggressiveness.

"Your brother...," I mumbled, "he's one of you, isn't he? And Aela?"

He nodded, pale eyes fixed on my face. "You're a keen observer."

I swallowed. "And... Athis?" I didn't want to believe that the Dunmer could transform like the brawny Nord beside me, that his laughing face would turn into such a monstrosity.

Farkas laughed out loud, deep and rumbling. "No, Athis not. Athis is just... Athis." He gave me a stern look. "Only the Circle has the gift... or..." he bit his lip as if he had to stop himself from saying more. The Circle, the people Athis had introduced to me as advisers, as those who took care of the administrative duties coming with the Companion's business. Seemed there was more to it, unless being a lycanthrope was an essential prerequisite to deal with defaulting clients. Besides Aela and the twins, Skjor belonged to them… and Kodlak, of course. The Alpha of the pack.

I sighed with relief, but then I swallowed. A question burned in my mind, but I didn't dare to ask it. A frown formed on his face as he watched me.

"What's the matter, Qhouri? You said you're not afraid..."

"Can you... control it? Only use it when necessary?"

He regarded me pensively. "Yes. All of us can, we're not the monsters from children tales. We go hunting... well, most of us do, this urge is there, but we can control it. I would never go out with someone like you if I couldn't."

His honesty eased the feeble feeling in my stomach, but it came back when he pointed at the bloody mess he had left. The gruesome sight constricted my throat. "They were Silver Hands. They... don't like werewolves, and they've sworn to eliminate us long ago."

"How did they know we'd be here? Or you?"

He stood up and started to don his armour again. Some of the straps were torn and buckles bent, but fortunately it was still usable. He spoke over his shoulder.

"No idea. This was obviously a trap, but they got what they deserved." He shrugged, and I didn't flinch when he laid a gauntleted hand on my shoulder.

"I'm not glad that I had to show this to you. It's not that I don't trust you... but I hope you don't feel uncomfortable with me now. I hope you believe me that I will never hurt you."

I believed him. He had done what he had to in order to protect us both.

I gave him a feeble smile. "Let's get going, there's a broken blade waiting for us. I promise not to touch any switches."


	8. Fire

The gods of excitement weren't finished with me yet. Not by a long shot.

We moved on, and the fighting became more frequent and more fierce as wave after wave of an unholy alliance between the Silver Hand and the furious draugr came over us. Sometimes we witnessed them fighting each other, waiting in the shadows until we would only have to face the survivors. But hiding in the shadows wasn't easy with Farkas around, and as soon as they detected us, both parties turned reliably on us. The werewolf was their common fiend.

And the werewolf showed now mercy either. Farkas pressed on, relentless and urgent. This wasn't just an adventure or a test for me any more... it had become a mission, to retrieve the fragment and even more to eradicate the Silver Hand warriors that had and still threatened him – him and his siblings. And they were warriors like us, well trained and well equipped, their silver weapons the biggest danger. Once he got slashed by a blade, a sloppy strike that didn't leave more than a scratch, and still I heard him cry out in pain as if he was burned. It was frightening, and I did everything to get us both out of here as fast as possible.

Not that I had a choice. After the trap and his turning, I recognised an edge to him that was new, the playful enthusiasm he had shown so far turning into a cold resolve that took him over completely, his mind on nothing but the next foe, the next blood he'd spill. We still worked in a team, in a fluid pattern of movement and attack, with me taking the lead, hinting at traps and taking out single enemies with my silent arrows whenever possible. Only if my target wasn't dead at once or its death alerted more of them, he stormed past me with a roar while I stayed in the shadows and took them out from afar.

I still had the feeling that he had my back, he had been deadly before, dispatching whatever came against us with the efficiency and skill that only came with decades of experience. The difference was hard to make out, subtle and more in his mood than in his behaviour, until I once watched him as he jabbed his sword through the chest of a Silver Hand fighter with so much force that the tip pierced through the back armour, widening the wound with a twist of his wrist until a gush of blood coated his gauntlet although his opponent was long dead. Naked bloodlust and hunger stood in his face as he let the corpse fall from his blade, his eyes already darting around for the next foe to impale. When he catched me staring, he bared his teeth in a feral grin.

I realised that the wolf was still there, not entirely buried by his humanity. Perhaps it had always been there, and I just wasn't able to see it. But now it was more than obvious, the change in him undeniable – he didn't even try to hide it. My resolve to get out of this cursed tomb as fast as possible only grew.

On and on we went, without break or rest, through the endless tunnels and chambers of the tomb. And it was literally endless, divided into several tracts, the dull monotonous corridors only sometimes interrupted by raw caves or animal dens. A giant frostbite spider had made its lair deep in the tunnels, and Farkas stood for a long time motionless in front of an enormous net that blocked the entrance, pale and heavily breathing, until he squared his shoulders in determination and tore it apart with a single strike.

The beast was towering above both of us, far too many eyes and far too many legs that skittered across the floor with a sound that made my skin crawl. Farkas lunged for it with a yell that sounded nearly desperate, trying to behead it with his first strike, but the spider was frighteningly fast and manoeuvrable, turning to him before he could bring his sword down, mandibles dripping with poison snapping shut. He recoiled and darted away as my arrow hit one of the huge eyes, but it was only one of many and barely seemed to have any effect. My mace had though when I rushed in and hammered with everything I had against the chitinous joint between head and body. A blade to pierce it would have been better, but it seemed I had hit something important, and it gave Farkas opportunity to thrust his sword into the soft hairy underside when it reared up.

A flush of blueish, translucent slime gushed out of the wound and coated his arm. He jerked back with a terrified cry, doubling over, retching and coughing while the spider collapsed behind him.

Seemed he didn't like spiders. When I laid a hand on his shoulder to get his attention, he grabbed my wrist and pulled me with him, disgust and nausea in his expression and only stopping when we had left the last cobwebs behind. He gave me a thankful but feeble smile when I handed him my waterskin.

"Hideous..." he muttered, leaning against a wall, his face sickly pale under all the blood and gore.

"You wanna take a rest?"

He shook his head frantically. "No. Gotta finish this. Can't be far now."

I was tired and exhausted and would have liked another short break, but I could press on as long as he. After all, I had slept the night before and he had not – and I wanted to get out of these cursed tunnels just as much as him.

It wasn't far any more, and the Silver Hand didn't get beyond the spider lair. But when we finally reached an enormous circular hall, coffins and sarcophagi lined up on the walls, in niches and on the three levels that led up to the back of the room, the true madness began.

Open coffins were bad enough, but dozens of undisturbed ones were worse, because we knew they'd still contain _something_. On the far end we could see a massive black altar littered with gravegoods, the wall behind it covered in signs none of us could read. This had to be the heart of the whole complex, and we could only hope that the fragment of Wuuthrad we had come for was indeed here.

Standing in the doorway, I caught Farkas' inquiring, impatient glance. We both knew we couldn't just stroll through this hall, take the fragment and leave. It couldn't be that easy. Shrugging, I entered the room and and moved along the wall, all my senses alert to make out every motion, every sound that would announce the rising of the dead. Farkas' armour behind me clanked in a way even the deafest undead had to hear him.

But it stayed quiet. Too quiet. My skin prickled, I felt the hair on my arms and in my neck stand on end, and a distant beat seemed to evolve directly in my head, making it hard to concentrate on my surroundings. Something was horribly wrong, and I had no clue what. Nothing hinted at anything unusual going on, the eerie silence racking my nerves. Shivering I stopped and looked back to my companion, but his questioning look and the gesture urging me on didn't help at all - he was alert, but not half as nervous as I. I had no choice but to continue.

I tried to focus on the altar, but my eyes seemed to arbitrarily fixate the wall behind it. Even worse, my field of view began to narrow the closer we got... I recognised it, tried to fight against the effect but could do nothing about it, until suddenly everything but these strange signs, these incomprehensible scratch marks was wiped from my awareness. The sound in my head became louder and louder, and it became a word - only one syllable, hammered into my brain with unearthly force. I had stopped sneaking long ago, and when finally a single line of signs burst into blinding blue light, I rushed towards the wall and dropped in front of it. The signs, the light and the sounds in my head all became one overwhelming impact of knowledge - it was the pure power of Fire which gushed into my consciousness, burning itself into my mind and erasing everything else.

When I came round, I felt only exhaustion. Like an afterglow of the strange experience, something that burned up the last remains of my energy, something that filled my body and my mind to the brim. As if I had never before known what fire was, but now I did and had no idea what to do with this knowledge. More than anything else, it was confusing.

Something patted my cheek. No, not something. Someone, the metal of Farkas' gauntlet cool on my face. When I finally managed to open my eyes, I found myself lying on the ground, my head in his lap, and the way he looked down on me would have been funny if I hadn't been so dizzy.

Whatever had just happened, it was scary. Somehow I had lost control without any obvious reason, over my senses and my own actions. Something had taken this control, and it was terrifying.

And Farkas looked down on me as if I had lost my mind.

"What in Oblivion was that? Are you insane to run off like that?"

He hadn't experienced what I had, obviously. All he had seen was his sneaky shield-sister suddenly jumping like mad over coffins, just to drop dead in front of a wall. No wonder he was puzzled. And worried. And angry.

I turned my head, studied the weird signs on the wall looming above me. There was nothing mysterious about them, no light, no sound. I didn't understand them any more than before – apart from this single line I recognised at once, although nothing distinguished it from the rest.

My head throbbed in protest when I sat up and knelt before the wall, tracing the mysterious signs that had burned themselves into my brain.

"This," I turned to Farkas, "means Fire. And don't ask how I know. I have no idea."

He watched me, disbelief in his eyes. And impatience. "What has happened?"

I sighed, leaning my forehead against the wall. When I closed my eyes, the flashing was back. "You haven't seen the light, have you? Or heard those sounds... this word?"

Somehow I was certain that it was indeed a word. _YOL._

He shook his head full of doubt, slung both our packs over his shoulder and offered me a hand to help me up. He didn't believe me, and I couldn't blame him. "We need to get out of here. Fast. How are you, can you walk?"

He was right, and the fact that we were still trapped in this dead silent tomb renewed my strength. I didn't understand what had happened, but it would have to wait - now I wanted nothing more than to leave this dreadful place. He looked relieved when I nodded and let him pull me to my feet, my vision blurring again slightly when I stood on wobbly knees, but when he handed me my bow and pointed at a small wooden stair which seemed to lead out, I squared my shoulders and marched towards it, eager not to show any weakness again.

Passing by the altar, Farkas grabbed the fragment and stuffed it into his pack. And of course it couldn't be that easy.

Every single coffin broke open at once, releasing an army of Draugr. Very angry Draugr. Heavily armoured Draugr with huge weapons, Draugr with bows and Draugr with the glittering of magic between their decayed hands.

Farkas recovered from this surprise much faster than me, the gods bless his experience. Immediately he backed away and pulled me with him, back to the altar. With the phalanx of moving corpses approaching, I could see the hate in their undead eyes, glowing blue with the vicious power that held them in their undead state. Hate… and envy. And I knew it were our living spirits they wanted, even more than the trinket we had stolen.

Farkas yelled in my ear. "Get up and take out the mages first, I will keep the others from reaching you!" Our approved method of me firing from the shadows obviously wouldn't work here. I jumped on the huge platform and was immediately hit by a lightning strike, and this was the last bit of energy I needed to overcome my fearful daze with anger. My first arrow hit the mage directly in one of his gleaming eyes.

What now followed was worse than every other fight before, it was bloody and gory, scary and painful, and more than once I was convinced we'd never make it out alive. And still, the way we worked together, fought for our lives knowing that we'd either survive both or none, it was an incredible, new, beautiful experience. Never before had we both been in such a glaring mortal danger together, never before had we been so dependent on each other. And to feel that it worked, that we became attuned and aligned to each other, that we saved each other's lives in split second decisions – it was overwhelming, and it made me feel alive.

For the first time I truly understood what it meant to have a shield-brother.

Our back was sheltered by the semi-circle of the wall, but I couldn't dodge anything thrown at me, and the stings of arrows and impacts of magic were painful. Soon I bled from many small wounds, but my arrows found target after target. Below me, Farkas somehow managed to keep the onslaught under control. His armour became dented, I heard him gasp for breath and saw him slip on the heaps of gore around him, but his sword plied along methodically from corpse to corpse to keep them all busy and focused on himself. Slowly, very slowly we decimated our enemies, but when the last one finally fell, we were both shocked by the sudden silence.

Finally, the tomb was full of death again.

I fell to my knees, but Farkas was worse off. He leaned motionless against the altar, his broad frame seemed to be smaller than before, as if he wasn't able to carry his heavy armour any more. Relief took over when I let myself drop down to him; his breath still came in heavy gasps, but a crooked, tired grin crinkled the layers of blood and dirt on his face.

"Well fought, whelp."

I sagged against the altar beside him. "We're alive." My voice was strangely weak and my head swam, but I pushed myself off and grabbed my pack. "Let's get going."

He gave me a once over, a muscle in his jaw switching. I asked myself if he felt as weak as I did, and if he didn't where he took the strength from. If it was only the enchanted necklace. "Yeah. You... we need rest."

We left the Cairn through the same door we had entered it, and I dropped my pack and myself against the wall of the pit, looking pleadingly up to him. "Can we stay here? It's safe enough."

We both looked horrible, our wounds not life-threatening but plenty and manifold. The light of both moons standing on the clear sky above us revealed that it wasn't long until dawn, and we both needed nothing more than to tend to our injuries, get something proper to eat and a few hours of sleep.

Farkas gave me a haunted gaze, but he nodded and when he offered to take the first watch, I didn't argue. Never before did I feel so exhausted, the effort to crawl into my bedroll nearly too much.

And again the sun had already risen when he woke me, pacing restlessly along the rim of the tomb's entrance while I got ready to leave. He looked horrible, tense and exhausted to the bones at the same time. His behaviour made me nervous. I missed his usual composure.

"Wanna prove that werewolves don't need to sleep?"

I tried to sound rather flippant than angry, but the grin he flashed me wasn't more than a reflex. He didn't deign me with an answer, started to march towards Whiterun as soon as I had climbed the stairs.

I called after him. "Have you at least eaten something?"

He stopped and turned abruptly, shoulders tight, jaws clenched, hands balled into fists. A golden ring lay around his pupils, flaring with… I didn't know what it was. He didn't look angry. Just… frenzied and desperate and incredibly tired.

"Farkas?" I whispered.

It seemed to take a moment until he recognised me, but finally his shoulders sagged, and he relaxed slightly. Now his smile was weak, but genuine. "Can't sleep," he muttered, "not after the change."

Oh. He made a step backwards when I made a step towards him, lowered his head. "Will you be okay?"

He nodded. "Yes. Just let's go home."

We wouldn't make it back to Whiterun that day, but I didn't press any further, and he set a fast pace. After a few miles, when the sun had fully risen, he seemed to ease a bit, and when I stopped at a small creek and told him firmly that he reeked and I wouldn't make another step before he had washed and eaten, he complied with a forced laughter, although he still appeared harried and stressed.

Farkas had suggested an abandoned shack he knew as our campsite for the night, and I was glad that we had a goal and he wouldn't try to march through until Whiterun, especially when thick clouds piled up above our heads and started to release a light but steady rain. He was taciturn and tightly controlled, nothing of the lightness in our dealings I had cherished so much during the first days, but there was nothing I could have done. Perhaps his behaviour was only normal – I had to trust that he knew how to deal with this.

And I had much to think of anyway. The strange signs that had so utterly overwhelmed me still burned in my mind, I still meant to hear that booming choir, still felt my senses flooded with this new understanding that felt so alien. If I thought very hard about it, the experience became so surreal that I could nearly blame my exhaustion, the endless fights and perhaps the foul, decayed air down in the depths of the Cairn. Nearly.

When he suddenly stopped moving, it took me a few seconds to notice.

"Qhourian!" I heard his whisper behind me.

Looking back, I saw him frozen in place, eyes wide open, a distraught expression on his face.

"Farkas, what's the matter?"

"Don't you smell that?" But I smelled nothing beside the wet earth and the oil and steel and sweat of the man beside me.

"It's burning flesh. Burning _human_ flesh. Necromancers!" The last word came as a growl.

The Farkas I knew – the friendly man, the skilled warrior - was gone, lost behind instincts that took him over. He didn't look at me. He didn't explain anything. He just moved, icy eyes focused on a goal I couldn't see.

"This is _my_ prey! Stay back!"

His expression let me obey, but I followed him, carrying both of our packs. Soon I smelled it as well – smoke, and something else. Something dreadful. I vanished into the cover of a few trees when my shield-brother approached our destination for the night. The abandoned shack wasn't abandoned at all.

He came over them like a storm of fury and hate.

They were three, clad only in dirty black robes, and the raging figure appearing between them with a beastly roar killed one of them with his first strike. But the others weren't half as shocked as I would have expected, they backed away in different directions, and I saw the lightning and fire forming in their hands. Farkas was hit, but the impact only seemed to increase his furious rage.

He was fast, but he didn't pay any attention to his surroundings. I watched him in horror - the raw bloodthirst and the unbridled rage on his face had not much human any more, and it made me shiver. This Farkas was much, much worse than the real beast he had revealed in the cairn – now he was beyond control and therefore much more frightening. I knew, even if I dared to approach him, nothing could stop him now.

But he didn't fight like he would have with a clear mind, like he had done it at my side in the tomb. He was careless and made mistakes. Darting after one of the mages, he left the other one alone who immediately took the opportunity to cast. But the spell forming between his palms wasn't released on the frenzied warrior. Instead the corpse of Farkas' first victim floated and rose, covered in tendrils of blue light, and methodically threw lightning bolt after lightning bolt. Terror and fear froze me in my hiding place. Farkas' plate armour didn't protect him the slightest against magic, and now it seemed he wasn't even able to kill them.

He had reached his next enemy now and ended his life with a fierce blow. Turning, he saw what had happened, that there still were two remaining attackers, and he obviously didn't care, answering the new challenge only with a furious roar. But the spells hurled at him slowed him down, and I could see the flicker of pain beneath the rage in his eyes. Before he could reach the next foe, the double impact of spells forced him to his knees while the mage still alive backed away further.

Pure willpower made him get up again and chase his fiend, but it escaped his attention that the door of the shack had opened. I knew at once that the Dunmer stepping out on the porch was an even bigger danger than the others, his robe ornated and clean, the cruel smirk on his face full of curiosity and satisfaction. He was the greatest danger of them all, and his appearance let me finally draw my bow. Farkas wouldn't survive this encounter if I didn't intervene.

The mer, nearly hidden on the porch of the shack, started to form a spell, a pale blue glow forming between his cupped hands. At first I thought he would revive another thrall, but this one was different. He released the magic with a casual flick of his wrists, his face indifferent as a whirling line shimmered in the air between Farkas and him.

The moment it hit him, Farkas dropped back to his knees with a terrified, terrifying scream, his arms raised like in a prayer, his eyes suddenly fixed on this new foe. This spell wasn't only an attack – there was a connection between them, something incredibly cruel and evil was going on, and he was overwhelmed and defeated in the blink of an eye. Never had I seen such an expression of torment and hopelessness, of purest dread. I released my arrow the moment he finally toppled over and rolled motionless to the side. It found its target in the Dunmer's throat and ended his incantation once and for all.

A second arrow killed the remaining mage who took his undead creature with him into the void. The sudden silence was ear-battering.

I knelt beside the motionless body of my shield-brother. He breathed, but only barely, his face deadly pale, but the worst were his still open eyes, staring into nothingness in a tortured expression of fear. Shaking his body didn't trigger any reaction.

My helpless despair broke free in a dry sob, but I knew the decisions I had to make now would determine our fate. His fate. No way I could move him away, especially not in his heavy armour, as much as I wanted to get away from this place. We would have to stay here, between the corpses and the remains of the Necromancer's horrible experiments, rotting flesh and human bones.

The camp was set up soon. Raising the small tent and lighting a fire took only a few minutes – I didn't care about anybody noticing us, if anything I hoped someone would find us and help, and we needed the warmth. When I dragged the corpses of the necromancers behind the shack, something fell out of the pocket of the Dunmer – a cylindrical stone, pitch black, with sharp edges and a feeling of lubricious warmth. To touch it sent a shiver down my spine, never had I seen something like this, something that emitted such a pure evil. Though every fibre of my self screamed to get rid of it, I stuffed it deep into my pack.

Farkas was still caught in deep unconsciousness. His eyes were closed now, but he had started to shiver – a shiver which was caused by something different than just cold and rain.

To dispose him of his armour and drag his lifeless body into the tent and under some furs should have left me exhausted, but I didn't feel it. His trembling had become violent, his whole body shaking beneath the covers, cold sweat flowing from his face and his eyeballs rolling rabidly under his closed lids. His condition was frightening. I had found no fresh wounds, but something had hurt him much deeper.

Kneeling beside him I had to realise there was nothing I could do, just sit by his side and watch his body and mind struggle against the unnamed horror inside. The sudden feeling of absolute uselessness was overwhelming. How could our mission go so horribly wrong? We had obtained the fragment, had overcome much more difficulties than we had anticipated, but before I came back to Jorrvaskr without Farkas, I'd better not return at all. Nothing could be as valuable to the Companions as his life.

The damp, cold skin beneath my fingers when I washed the smear and sweat from his pale face and his violent trembling revealed that the heat of the fire did nothing to him, that he didn't warm up, that he'd perhaps freeze to death.

There was nothing I could do. Nothing... but to try to keep him warm myself. To share my own bodyheat with him. I tried to repress the idea, tried to make myself believe that this possibility didn't even exist. But the huge, shivering frame of the man lying in the small tent made it impossible to lie to myself. Fear struggled with compassion, self-pity with my responsibility for his life. His survival lay in my hands, he was dependent on me. He had revealed his darkest secret to save my life. We had saved each more than once, had fought an army of undead and come out alive. And now it was my turn to save him, to give him my warmth, and to allow a closeness I never wanted to endure again.

Farkas moaned, a sound from his tortured unconscious mind which finally blew away my doubts. After all, I needed to rest as well, no way I'd be able to stand watch the whole night through. If somebody found us – I couldn't help it. I got rid of my armour and squeezed myself into his bedroll as close to his shivering body as possible, used my own as an additional cover and rested my head on his chest. To listen to his rattling breath and how it gradually became steadier and quieter, to feel how the shivers subsided calmed me down as well, but it took hours until I finally dozed off. The night was pitch black, only the quenching fire shot some sparks into the cold air.

I awoke in the dim light of the rising morning, a heavy arm slung around my waist. Terrified I tried to recoil, to get away from this body of a stranger but it was too tight under all these furs and his grip too strong. Only slowly the memory came back, the events of the day before and how I had spent the night, the helplessness and fear and the decision I had made, and I forced myself consciously to relax and my own heavy breathing to ease.

Opening my eyes, I found them locked in the gaze of a beast, intense gold, nearly glowing in the dim light, searching, distraught, full of incomprehension. And beneath it, a glimpse of silver, a glimpse of reason. I became stiff beside him, but I didn't struggle. His grip tightened briefly, then I felt him relax.

"Thank you, sister." The whisper was barely audible, and he closed his eyes. His breath had eased. He slept.

It was pure luck that the merchants found us, a Khajiit trading caravan travelling from Markarth to Whiterun. The shack I was confined to wasn't far from the main street, and if I had known the landmarks and terrain better I would have realised that fact and actively searched for help instead to spend days in this horrible place, with Farkas never truly waking again, unable to leave and unable to aid him. The Khajiit only wanted to spend a night in the shelter of the hut they thought abandoned as well, but they took us with them, the unconscious warrior resting on a carriage between piles of furs and crates with whatever they held in stock.

Farkas' recovery took far too long... in fact, he didn't recover at all. Beside a few scorchmarks he didn't have any injuries I could have tended to, he shifted however between uneasy sleep and deep unconsciousness, often mourning and fighting against something unseen. The few potions I could give him showed no effect at all, and I barely managed to make him drink some broth during the brief periods he was halfway awake. I waited for a sign, a word, any hint of recognition or conscious thought, but he seemed to have withdrawn into some part of himself where nothing was able to reach him – where he wouldn't allow anything, anybody to follow him.

It took a load like a mountain off my mind when Vilkas and Skjor showed up at the Whiterun stables to fetch their companion. The courier I had sent ahead of the slow carriage had done his job, and they carried him away without a second look.

I didn't mind. Tired and weary, my head full of whirling thoughts and my heart full of guilt I trudged through the streets of Whiterun, following the men slowly. Only a few days ago I wanted to leave this place behind once and for all, but to return to the Hall like this wasn't a good feeling either. During this mission, I had ultimately proven that I wasn't worthy to become one of them, had demonstrated more than once that having me as shield-sister was more dangerous than going alone. My unreliability and stupidity had brought Farkas into mortal danger several times, and when it should have been my turn to save him, I had been too late. I felt much like just turning and vanishing back into the wilds. But there was still the fragment of Wuuthrad in my pack - to deliver it to the people who were entitled to it was the least I had to do.

Athis warm greeting on the stairs leading down to the fire catched me off guard; he had been waiting for me, no member of the Circle in sight. Their absence filled me with a strange relief.

"Good to see you back," he said friendly, grasping my wrist.

"Is it?" I dropped heavily onto a chair and opened my pack, avoiding his gaze.

"Yes. We worried." Njada had come over as well, standing behind Athis as he sat down beside me. Her remark started me up until I realised that it was Njada and what she probably meant.

Of course they had worried, for the mission, for their shield-brother, for the fragment. We had been gone for ten days on a job that should have been taken five or six at most, and Farkas had come back more dead than alive. I rubbed my forehead with the back of my hand, then handed the fragment to the mer, wrapped carefully in a piece of leather. It was a relief to get rid of it. And now I only wanted to sleep and leave this disaster behind.

"Here," I said quietly, "at least we got this."

He unwrapped the bundle curiously, and his face lit up when he revealed the charred shard. "Another one," he said reverently. It was only a broken piece of a blade, but it was also a symbol for the bond that had formed the Companions for thousands of years and the honour to be a part of them.

But Athis handed it to Njada and turned to me. "Are you hungry? Kodlak wants to see you... but if you want you can eat first."

I shook my head. "I want to get this over with."

"They're waiting for you in his quarters." They, that was probably the Circle. All of them, including Vilkas. I groaned inwardly, but I stood up and made my way to the stairs, feeling Athis' sympathetic gaze in my back.

The whole circle was gathered when I entered Kodlak's rooms. The Harbinger's welcoming smile dispelled some my fears, but Vilkas' pacing in the small chamber was unsettling. Not unexpected was his smouldering, hateful look. "What happened to my brother?" His question came with a growl, I hadn't even taken the seat Skjor was offering.

"Vilkas, please sit down. I'm sure Qhourian will tell us everything she knows, if you let her."

Kodlak turned to me. "Qhouri, Farkas' condition is alarming. Danica has looked after him, but he has nothing she could have helped with. We need to know what happened, perhaps we can find a clue together."

Yes, that was why I was here, to give account of the events.

It was cathartic to tell these people everything. I didn't care how they'd judge me; I just wanted to get this burden off my mind, and I wanted do whatever possible to help Farkas become himself again. I told them about the bandit assault, about the Silver Hand, their trap and how he had to reveal their secret, about my strange experience in the crypt, the final battle against the army of draugr and his insane assault on the necromancers on our way back. Nobody interrupted me, they listened with awe and astonishment. Only Vilkas growled quietly when I came to the werewolf part.

"It must have been the necromancers," Kodlak said thoughtfully, "it seems he was okay before."

"No, he wasn't!" I interrupted him brusquely. "I told you how he has changed, that he didn't sleep. He hasn't been his old self since he had to change!"

Kodlak's gaze flitted over the faces of the others until Aela gave him finally a subtle nod. Vilkas' wary scowl only deepened when the Harbinger took a deep breath.

He watched me from calm eyes. "I hate to ask you this, Qhouri, but... when he changed in the cairn... do you know if he fed?"

I furrowed my brows in confusion. "Fed?" When I realised what he meant, my stomach revolted and I had to suppress a gag. "You mean, if he ate the corpses?"

Kodlak nodded. I pressed my palm against my mouth and shook my head. The bloodbath had been bad enough, but to think of him _feeding_ on them... Divines, that was an even more horrible image.

I saw relief in the faces surrounding me. Relief and concern.

Skjor was the first to speak. "It wasn't complete," he mumbled, "and then he lost control."

Seeing my clueless look, Kodlak gave me a weak smile. "You know it anyway. Now we can just as well tell you the rest." He rubbed his temples nervously. "You know what we are, and you're a hunter yourself. Have you ever seen a wolf – or any predator – kill just because they could?"

What a strange question. "No. They kill because they're hungry. Or to defend themselves."

"Exactly. And it's the same with us." He shook his head sadly. "Farkas changed to defend himself – and you – but for us, the change is not complete as long as we haven't fed. Not to feed keeps the wolf in control. The problem is, we don't feed on people. Never. We kill them if we have to, but we don't feed on them. That distinguishes us from those that are feral, the wild ones. Among other things." He looked incredibly weary. "His change wasn't complete. That's why he went berserk against the mages."

I listened in awe to his explanation. That was why Farkas was so different on our way back, so tense and absent. He struggled with his wolf. "A situation like that is the worst possible, he had to change but nothing to feed on. He should have hunted after you left the cairn, but I assume he didn't want to leave you alone after your strange experience. Or upset you further."

"But this doesn't help us!" Vilkas shouted out, despair in his voice. "Yes, he went berserk on the necros, but it doesn't explain why he's like that!" He pointed to the door.

Everybody fell silent, helplessness in their faces, when it struck me. "There's something else I need to show you!" I darted out of the room and fetched my pack from the bunk I had dropped it on.

When I presented them the strange black stone on the palm of my hand, still pulsating with its unnatural warmth, Vilkas' eyes widened in horror. "That's a soulstone! A black soulstone!"

Everybody winced away from me at his words, and the bewildered look on Kodlak's face made me flush with shame. What had I done? Why didn't I get rid of this awful thing at once? Was Farkas' condition my fault, because I had kept it?

Seeing my confusion, Kodlak took the stone slowly from my hand and wrapped it into a piece of cloth. "We need Farengar, immediately. He's the only one in Whiterun who can help with this. Who can – perhaps – understand what happened."


	9. The Black Stone

"You really need a very good reason to make me come here in the middle of the night!" The face of the hooded figure Skjor led into the room was hidden, but his voice revealed more curiosity than anger.

"We have indeed, Farengar," Kodlak sighed, "thank you for coming so fast."

He unfolded the cloth lying on the table between us, and the man gasped in surprise.

"By the Divines! How did you get that?"

The Jarl's courtmage removed his hood, revealing a lean face, cleanly shaven except the impressive sideburns, and intense, dark blue eyes. Slowly, he took the stone from its wrap, and his eyes widened with astonishment.

"It's… it's been used!"

His words hung in the room like a poisoned fume.

"The gods help us. _H__elp him!_" Vilkas' whisper expressed abysmal despair.

Farengar looked more than confused.

"Would somebody please tell me what happened?"

Kodlak appeared as if he had aged for decades during the last few minutes.

"You need to see for yourself," he said and pointed to the door.

The almost palpable fear on the faces of the Companions infected me as well, but my confusion was even stronger than that. I understood that something terrible had happened, but… what? Skjor recognised my bewilderment before I could ask.

"Qhourian, you're not much into magic, are you?" I just shook my head. Magic was something I never had the opportunity to get involved with besides some basic potion recipes – though I wasn't sure if alchemy counted as magic at all.

"Okay. The thing you've brought us is a soulstone. They're used together with a soultrap spell to catch the soul of a creature when it dies, and then they can be used to enchant stuff." He hesitated. "Vilkas, please explain it to her. You know much more about it."

Vilkas' anger seemed to have subsided, his face only showed a weary thoughtfulness.

"The soul is weird. Every living thing has one, and contrary to common belief it's not something completely spiritual. It's… a form of energy, it's what makes a lump of flesh alive. Without a soul, there's no life… not even unlife. The draugr you killed in that tomb, even they have still a soul. Perhaps they're undead _because_ they're still ensouled. In the end, nobody knows exactly… those that do are dead, and we can't ask them any more."

He gave a small, pensive smile that didn't reach his eyes. I listened to his explanation with awe.

"This energy can be captured when a body dies. It's a mystical art, but mages do it all the time. Farengar should show you the stones he uses, and what he can do with them. If you ever find some on your travels he will pay you a good price for them, because every stone can only be used once, and it's destroyed when its power is released."

He rubbed his palms over his face and into his neck, tired and nervous. I had so many questions, but I didn't interrupt him.

"Usually enchanters only use the souls of animals, they don't have an afterlife anyway. The souls of people – men, mer and beastmen - are special, perhaps because we're conscious of ourselves. But they can be trapped just as well. It's considered necromantic and an abomination, but it's possible. With black soulstones."

He lifted the cloth with the stone from Kodlak's desk and placed it on his palm, the smooth surfaces shimmering in a deep purple in the dim light. His voice was frighteningly flat and emotionless. "And after everything we know, this one has been used on my brother."

His words hang in the room, calm and ultimate, and they sunk in only slowly. That mage had defeated Farkas by stealing his _soul_. I had carried it around in this thing. He had lost his soul, but he was still alive.

Divines, what kind of existence was this?

I wasn't the only one who followed this line of thought. It was Aela who broke the stunned silence.

"But it can't be. A soultrap spell only works the moment a body dies, but Farkas _isn't dead__!_ How is it possible that his soul is in there?"

Farengar, entering the room just this moment, heard her words and nodded gravely. "I must confess, I've never seen or heard about a case like this. But everything we know indicates that Farkas' soul is hurt severely, and our only hope lies in this thing," he pointed at the black stone that still lay in Vilkas' hand before he turned to me. "Qhourian, you're new here, aren't you? It was probably pure luck that you found it at all, but that you brought it back here was brave and considerate – most people would've probably just thrown it away. I will do what I can, but I will need your help. You're the only one who witnessed the process we want to reverse."

The freezing wind made me shiver, it matched the icy cold that coiled in my ribcage and made it hard to breathe. Head whirling with confusion, eyes burning from exhaustion, that was how Athis found me. Silently he sat down beside me on the stairs leading to the training yard, his slender body radiating a subtle warmth.

"You have brought me into this mess."

He had washed away the white warpaint, only his bright red eyes were visible in the darkness.

"Aye, that's true. But don't believe that I regret it."

"But Farkas..."

"What happened to him is _not your fault_," he interrupted me sharply. "We don't know what happened. Nobody knows."

"But I could have helped him. I could have killed the mage much earlier. I should..."

"Could have, should have... bullshit, Qhouri. He was in a frenzy. Went berserk. You don't get in the way of a raging werewolf. You would be dead by now, and the outcome for him would've been the same. Just that he would have frozen and starved to death with his soul trapped."

I turned my head to him, searched his gaze.

"How is it... to live with them? So close?"

"You mean the Circle?"

I nodded.

"Are you mad at me because I didn't tell you?"

"No. I shouldn't know at all. Of course they're not... open with it. Towards strangers. I just wanna know how it is. How you deal with it."

He propped his chin into his palm. "There's nothing to deal with. Once you know them... they're good people. All of them. And if you ask how it is..." A chortle escaped him, his red eyes gleaming in the pale light. "It's safe. Believe it or not, but there's no safer place than Jorrvaskr. At least as long as you belong to the pack."

"But you just said that Farkas would have killed me."

"I don't know, honestly. Perhaps he would, perhaps he wouldn't. We don't know how much control he still had. Kodlak would have probably been able to stop him."

"Because he's his Alpha."

"Yes."

I buried my forehead in my palms, sighing deeply. "Chased by half-rotten undead, rescued by a werewolf, a flashing and singing wall, and then the man I was responsible for stuck somewhere between life and death, with his soul trapped in a stone. It's all your fault, Athis."

He chuckled. "You _are_ angry."

Perhaps I was. Angry and confused and far too tired to deal with it. It was just too much. At least not at him. Although I should be, perhaps. And I should be angry because he made fun of me. It was just too much effort. "No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are. Everybody would be. But better angry than afraid, I'd say." He poked his bony elbow into my ribs. "See... it's not so bad. Farkas still lives thanks to your care, Farengar is a clever lad and will find a cure for him, those werewolves don't mean you no harm, and concerning that speaking wall… I'm sure we will find an answer to that riddle as well."

His lighthearted confidence eased the riot of conflicting emotions. I needed someone like him – someone who could put things into perspective and tell me what to do. I was tired of being pushed around by events I had no control of.

"Come inside, Qhouri, I freeze to death here. I don't have your hot Nordic blood," he smiled. The mead hall was nearly empty by now, only Tilma clearing around and Vilkas sitting in a corner nursing a tankard of mead, a couple of empty bottles standing beside him. His scowl was empty and bland as he reacted to the clapping of the door with a glazed look.

Athis fetched a piece of parchment and a quill. "Here, write it down."

"Write _what_ down?"

"The signs in your head. The ones from the wall."

It was so easy.

The mer looked curiously over my shoulder. "Oh, that's dragon speech," he said dryly. "You can find it all over Skyrim, often in burial sites or really secluded places. See, all of these signs look as if someone with talons had scratched them into stone. First riddle solved!" His boyish grin and enthusiasm carried me along, though I couldn't believe that he had recognised it so easily. Until now, I didn't even know that dragons had a language of their own at all.

"The next question is why you are able to read it. Or understand, or whatever. You said you know the meaning of that word? Because, the common knowledge of this language has been lost for thousands of years. It vanished with the last dragons, and only very few people know it today."

"Yes. It means _Fire_. But it's the only word I know the meaning of, there was a whole wall full of them. And I have absolutely no idea why I even know this one. There was no one who could have told me."

"There must be a coincidence with the events at Helgen and the sightings of dragons. Dragons! I'd love to fight one, you know?"

"You're insane. Farkas had the same stupid idea," I mumbled.

But to see Athis treat the whole matter like a research project made me smile. I just feared to become an object of his studies – there was nothing I wanted less than be a part of this strange coincidence.

I was tense, overtired and frustrated when Tilma woke me at a truly ungodly hour. I had dreamt without remembering what, but I seldom did. Only that this morning I had the nagging feeling that it was important, that something relevant escaped me as I made my way to Dragonsreach, the palace of the Jarl. I had never been here on the highest point of Whiterun before, and the view over the awakening city in the smooth light of the morning sun was admittedly beautiful and peaceful.

No guards watched over the entrance, but as soon as I entered, a Dunmer in leather armour approached me.

"The Jarl doesn't see anybody now. If you have to ask a favour, come back later."

Her brusqueness made me nervous, but I wouldn't draw back.

"And you are…?"

"Irileth, Jarl Balgruuf's housecarl. Nobody approaches him without my consent."

"But I don't want to speak to the Jarl. Farengar is awaiting me."

"Oh! Are you the one Athis told me about? Come in, come in, Farengar announced your coming. But please, don't keep him busy for too long, his research on the dragon rising is more than urgent, as I'm sure you'll understand."

She led me into Farengar's rooms which looked exactly like I had imagined typical mage's quarters. Colourful potions on the shelves, complicated arcane instruments and lots and lots of books and papers littered the huge desk and the floor. Farengar himself looked as if he hadn't slept for days, tired and frustrated.

"Ah, Qhourian, good to see you." He cleared some parchments from a chair and bid me to sit down. "I'm at my wits end at the moment, and I need some input from someone else to get going again. I've read every text about necromancy and soul trapping I have available, even some obscure stuff about a Daedra called Azura, but nothing seems to come even close to Farkas' case. Please, I need to know everything about what has happened. Tell me every little thing you remember, and let me decide if it's important or not."

I didn't want to recap the events again, but I tried my best. I told the mage how Farkas had entirely lost control in his bloodthirst, how he attacked the mages and how they defended themselves. About the reanimated thrall and the Dunmer with his strange spell whom I had killed in the last possible moment. Farengar just listened and made some notes, but didn't interrupt me.

"And then? What happened _then_?"

My questioning view caused an impatient gesture. "Well, he was unconscious, you found him, and then? Was he like now right from the beginning? Or was there… a development in his condition?"

"No. He was unconscious, but he also… seemed to fight against something, like in a nightmare, just worse. He didn't sleep, but he wasn't awake either, he shivered horribly, and… and I didn't know what to do, so I made camp and tried to keep him warm at the fire, but that wasn't enough. I was afraid he'd freeze to death, or hurt himself, so in the end I warmed him myself." I blushed at the memory how I had found myself trapped in his unconscious embrace next morning. "Oh, and in the morning, he thanked me. I think it was the last time he was really awake! And then he slept. I mean, really slept, peaceful and quiet, until the struggling came back."

Farengar's face became more and more thoughtful with my words. "That could be important… hm, yes… he woke and seemed better… conscious… and it happened when you were near him… perhaps it happened _because_ you werethere! Human souls need others to mend if they're hurt, every healer knows this. Even physical injuries heal much better if somebody who cares for the patient applies the treatment. Perhaps I should leave all this necromancy stuff alone and read about restoration…"

He seemed deep in thoughts, but his eyes had lit up. His changed mood cheered me up as well, though I had no idea how I could have helped him.

With new energy he stood up and stretched his body. "Qhourian, such detailed reports like yours are immensely helpful. I've a few new ideas - but I also have a problem. I really want to help Farkas, the Companions are such an important part of Whiterun, and I know the boys since they were little pups. And apart from that, I've never encountered such an interesting case!" He smiled as if to assure me that it was more than scientific interest that drove him.

"But you know I'm the Jarl's court mage, which means he has the first access to my work. And he wants me to do some research on the dragons which are rumoured to have returned."

"No, that's not a rumour. I've seen one of them myself."

"You have seen one? Where? When?"

"I've been at Helgen." I couldn't escape it, that event wormed itself back in my life over and over again. Everything would have been different if the dragon… and the Imperials… but all ifs and buts wouldn't change anything now.

"You've been at Helgen? Not many survived that." A shadow fell on his face. "I'm glad you made it out alive. And perhaps it's your destiny to deal with these matters even further. See… I need someone to go into Bleak Falls Barrow and fetch a Dragonstone for me. And when I say fetch, I really mean delve into a dangerous ruin in search of an ancient stone tablet that may or may not actually be there."

He looked expectantly at me, his smirk making clear enough who he meant when he said he was looking for _someone_. Bleak Falls Barrow, that was the Nordic tomb near Riverwood. And it meant probably more draugr. But if I could buy Farengar some time to search for a cure for Farkas with this trip, I would of course do it.

"What is this Dragonstone?"

He gave me a crooked grin. "I'm not sure. It's said to contain a map of dragon burial sites. Sounds crazy, I know, the part with the burial sites as much as that there could be a map of them. But it's the only clue I have at the moment, and my sources are usually reliable."

I didn't even want to think about what kind of sources this could be, but I gave him my word to get the job done as soon as possible. I had nothing better to do anyway, and no way I'd leave Whiterun for good as long as I didn't know what would become of Farkas.

Athis declared me insane if I thought I'd go through that tomb alone when I told him where Farengar had sent me and refused to discuss the matter further. Instead he met me at the stairs with his own pack on his shoulders.

"Someone in Riverwood has a skeever infestation in their storage cellar. We can just as well take care of that and then go into the Barrow together."

"This is no Companions' job, Athis."

He gave me a mischievous grin. "You wish. If you hadn't pilfered it, it would be. The Jarl pays good, no way I let you rake in the reward all for yourself."

And no way I'd ever win an argument with the mer. Gladly I accepted his company and the sidetrip, after all this would finally be the opportunity to thank the blacksmith and his wife for taking care of me after the incident with the wolves.

The journey was supposed to take us only half a day, and we enjoyed the beautiful weather and the colours of autumn shining in the already low sun.

But somewhere between the Honningbrew meadery at the outskirts of Whiterun and the bridge that led over the White River into the village our lazy stroll was rudely interrupted by a pack of wolves; we had heard their howling for some time, but their ambush out of the brushwood came still unexpected. Observing their attack, how they fought viciously together finally brought to the surface what had gnawed at my subconsciousness since the morning.

"Athis, I need to go back to Whiterun. I've an idea about Farkas… perhaps its utter nonsense, but I need to talk to Kodlak about it. Could you take care of the skeever alone and meet me at the crossroads leading to the barrows tonight?"

Athis looked more than curious, but didn't ask any questions. He knew I'd tell him more as soon as I could.

I rushed back into Jorrvaskr and towards the stairs to the living quarters full of excitement. And again I was stopped by a brutal grip to my upper arms.

"What are you doing here?" Vilkas sneered, "aren't you supposed to do some work for that wizard?"

I froze instantly, went limp in his unrelenting grip. I hated myself for the irrational fear his proximity induced, but I was also powerless against him. Completely helpless.

"I need to talk to Kodlak," I whispered, not looking into his face. I knew he glared down on me full of aversion. "I have an idea… about Farkas!" I wanted to yank out of his grip, but it only became stronger, his fingers clenching into my flesh. Again he pressed me against the wall, his voice a threatening growl.

"Don't you dare to come near him, _bitch,_" he hissed into my face, "it was madness to take you along in the first place, and of course you failed when you should have had his back. You won't get another chance to harm him, no one needs your ideas, and his family will take care of him. _Did I make myself clear?_"

The hatred and anger in his voice hit me like a rock. He shoved me away from the stairs and blocked the way, legs apart and his arms crossed over his chest. I knew he would turn violent if I tried to enter the living quarters, but as shocked as I were, I knew I had to talk to someone of the Circle. If not Kodlak, then somebody else. It was just an idea, for Kyne's sake!

In the end, I found Skjor in the training ground, working with Ria. Seeing my expression, he told her to practice a certain move, lowered his weapon at once and came over. "Qhourian? You look as if you met a ghost!"

No, not a ghost, but I wouldn't complain about Vilkas. I wouldn't give him that satisfaction, and I just wanted to get this out of my head.

"Skjor… do you have a moment, please?"

"Of course. What's the matter?"

"Please, what you think of this… could it be possible that the beastblood keeps Farkas alive? I mean… I know nothing about this stuff. But he's part wolf, isn't he? And the wolf was in control when it happened. Farengar said he has never seen a case like his before, but he also doesn't know what you are. Perhaps the wolf part in him couldn't be trapped by that black soulstone? Perhaps it's utter nonsense, but…"

If I had hoped for some kind of approval from the warrior, I was disappointed. Skjor listened intently, but with every word the frown on his face only grew.

He shook his head. "No. It can't be. We're still human, and Farkas wasn't even transformed. The spell worked on him, after all. The stone you brought was used to trap a _human_ soul."

"But... aren't you both?"

He stared at me, then his gaze shifted away, towards the mountains in the distance. "_Join your spirit with the beastworld,_ we say," he mumbled absentmindedly. It was quiet for a long moment. "Perhaps... you're right." Squaring his shoulders, he pulled himself together and turned his attention back to me. His one-eyed gaze seemed as if it wanted to pierce _my_ soul now. "I wonder, Qhourian... others would be scared, even terrified if they knew what we are. If they had witnessed what you have seen. But you aren't, I can tell. Instead you're reasonable and think about it and try to help. Why?"

A few days ago I would have been terrified as well, but then... I had witnessed something incredible. I gave him a pensive smile. "I have seen him, Skjor. He wasn't mindless... he recognised me. He _protected_ me. And even afterwards... I mean, I knew something was wrong. I saw that he fought with something, and he told me it was because of the change. But I never thought he was dangerous. Not once." Only when I woke up in his arms. But that was... just a reflex. And it was because of the man, not the wolf.

A grin flickered over his face. "Yes, Farkas is quite the puppy. But don't fool yourself. We _are_ dangerous." He stood up with new determination. "I will speak with Kodlak about this, and we will speak with Farengar. You're right, he should know... perhaps we've missed the forest for the trees. And you return to your job, I want you to be back as soon as possible."

He nearly ran into Vilkas who left the building just the moment he opened the door, and the glare the man shot me didn't go unnoticed. The two of them locked eyes until Vilkas retreated from his stare. Skjor finally spoke.

"You come with me to our Harbinger, there are decisions to make."

If looks could kill I would have dropped dead from Vilkas' murderous gaze right on the stairs.

The cool wind and the swift jog back to Riverwood cleared my head. I was glad that Skjor had taken me seriously, but the confrontation with Vilkas gnawed on my nerves. Slowly frustration and confusion turned into anger. I was angry at myself because he was able to overpower me like that. And of course I was angry at him. It wasn't my fault that Farkas went against a full camp of mages alone. He even forbid me to follow him. He was the experienced warrior, not me, and he should have known better. And I had done everything in my power to help him afterwards. There was nothing I had to blame myself for. And now I had to concentrate on the task at hand.

"You don't look very happy, Qhouri. Already afraid of the undead?"

Athis leant relaxed against the railing of the bridge, a slice of bread in one hand, a bottle of ale standing beside him, his face turned appreciatively into the evening sun.

"Let's go. No, I'm not afraid. In fact, I'm in the mood to split some skulls. And not necessarily undead skulls, but they will do for now."

"There won't be only undead. I've stocked up on potions in Riverwood, and the trader has a trinket stolen from his shop. He believes the thieves have their base in the Barrow, so if we can get it back, there will be another reward in it."

Athis knew better than to ask further about the reasons for my foul mood and let me let off steam on the thugs camping in front of the entrance. Inside were even more of them, but these bandits were no challenge in comparison to the skilled Silver Hand warriors we had encountered in Dustman's Cairn. They were clad in cheap, mismatched pieces of armour, wielded rusty maces and notchy swords and, worst for them, they didn't expect us.

Athis would have made an amazing assassin if he were a bit less nice. Or honourable. Sneaking into a large room, we overheard a conversation about a guy named Arvel running ahead with the claw. Athis grinned. "He won't get far," he whispered. It was awesome to watch him sneak absolutely soundless through the shadows until he could have pickpocketed one of the guys. He slit his throat instead, and killed the other with a swift strike of his dagger. Both were dead before they knew what happened, the mer turning with a triumphant, boyish grin to me. He had obviously a lot of fun, and I was glad that he had joined me for this trip.

Our enemies were not only unskilled fighters, they were also not the smartest. One of them died an agonising death from poisoned darts by turning a lever which was so obviously trapped even I recognized it at once, and with the corresponding pillar puzzle so simple it took us mere seconds to solve it.

Deeper into the tomb, the bandits were followed by spiders. Huge spiders. In fact, the largest spider I had ever encountered, larger than the one in Dustman's Cairn, and even Athis didn't manage to approach her unseen – far too many eyes. But we dispatched it as well, just to find a desperate Dunmer pleading for help trapped in a huge, sticky mess of silk.

"You aren't accidentally called Arvel the Swift, are you?"

Athis smirked maliciously at his compatriot, he could look really evil if he wanted. The Dunmer seemed to tremble with fear, but Athis cut his tirade short.

"We free you, and you give us the claw. Deal?" The mer nodded frantically.

I knew something was wrong with him, he was far too nervous and agitated to trust this display of terror. And of course, as soon as I cut the strings of the web, he turned and darted away – deeper into the tunnels.

I wanted to follow him, but Athis grabbed my arm. He seemed to count – until we heard a rumble, a roar and a terrified shriek which was suddenly cut off.

"Only 20 seconds. Let's be cautious, whatever got him isn't far. And it's probably not bandits any more."

It were draugr, the same kind of draugr I already knew, clumsy but strong, and we found Arvel's corpse nearly cleaved in half by an ancient greatsword. We took the claw, and his journal told us how to use it – it wasn't only a trinket, but rather the key to the heart of the barrow. I wondered if the trader he had stolen it from knew this and what treasures Arvel and his fellows had hoped to find there.

Athis' and my style went perfectly together, we slipped through the corridors with barely a sound, and while I preferred to use the bow from a distance, he obviously liked his pair of daggers much more. It was even easier than with Farkas, because he was able to detect and avoid the many traps on our way instead just to stumble into them, and as he didn't raise every undead in the barrow at once like Farkas did it with his furious roars, we usually only had to deal with one or two at a time, were even able to dispatch some of them before they had left the narrow alcoves where they had waited the last few thousand years for us to appear.

The tomb wasn't quite as vast as Dustman's Cairn, and beside the draugr there were at least a few skeever for variety and an underground stream that got us wet feet, but in the end we reached the end. The claw opened a portal, the enormous stone disc vanishing into the ground with a disconcerting grinding noise.

I knew at once that we had reached the end because it contained another of the strange word walls, and the effect was exactly the same as in the Cairn - a single syllable chiming in my head, a certain line of signs and finally the blue light pouring into my brain. Just its meaning was different – this time, I learned the dragon word for _force_, and I still had no idea what to do with this knowledge.

As soon as he saw the wall, Athis knew without another word that he couldn't rely on me while I stumbled towards it. He watched my back, and of course the huge coffin in front of it broke open when I approached and released another draugr – these undead were so predictable. This one was clad in shimmering armour and attacked with deadly magic, and the small throwing dagger Athis threw at him for distraction just bounced off. Fortunately I was back on my feet much faster this time, and we could go after this last foe together.

But in the end, he was just a draugr. A powerful wizard draugr, but still undead and without the brain to deal with two swift, skilled enemies at once. In his coffin, we finally found a stone disk, one side covered with the same kind of signs like those on the wall, the other with some scratch marks that could eventually depict the outlines of Skyrim – with very much imagination and only if one knew that it was supposed to be a map. I was glad I wouldn't have to decipher it, but if this wasn't the Dragonstone Farengar was looking for, he would have to get it himself.

It was only a light snowfall that coated the blank rocks all around us in white when we left the Barrow, but the sharp wind made it into pricks of sharp pain on every bit of unprotected skin, and Athis started immediately to shiver violently. The exit was just a hole in the mountain side, even higher than the entrance, and the descend was tedious, dangerous and slow in the near darkness. To return Riverwood, drop into the warmth of the inn and order hot drinks to thaw our frozen bones was exactly the gratification we thought we had earned ourselves. It was already well past midnight, and of course we could have returned to Whiterun at once; but we were both tired after that endless crawl through the darkness, we wanted to deliver the claw personally, and I still wanted to speak with Sigrid.

"Petty excuses!" Athis just claimed dryly when we had finally found a place near the fire for ourselves, our packs and our tankards. "What is it that keeps you from returning to Jorrvaskr? What happened while I cleaned that vermin-infested cellar?" This elf had clearly seen too much in his life to be fooled by someone like me. His face was earnest, but his eyes looked kind.

I clenched my hands around my mug. "I… I clashed with Vilkas. He holds me responsible for his brother. And he has clearly expressed that he doesn't want to see me in the hall again." Athis didn't show any reaction. He knew I wasn't finished.

"And anyway, the later I return the more time Farengar spends on Farkas' cure instead to deal with stupid dragons! And… I told Skjor that they should tell him about the lycanthropy, perhaps that helps! Because Farkas still lives, but his soul is also in the damned stone, so it must be his beast that's keeping him alive! That's why I had to get back…"

The words just tumbled out of me. Athis leaned over and grabbed my hands over the table. His fingers were still cold, but his eyes sparkled. Was this guy ever serious?

"Okay… just let me get this straight. You found the solution for Farkas' problem but let his mad twin throw you out of the hall. And instead of splitting _his_ skull, you take your frustration out on some poor guys having a picnic in an ancient ruin. I really, really hope Skjor understood what you told him and did your job: speak with Kodlak and slap some sense into this moron."

I couldn't help it, but he managed to elicit a weak smile from me.

"Athis, _my_ problem isn't Farkas. No, that's wrong, of course it is, but it's nothing I can help with. Farengar and the Circle and his brother are much more important with that. But... Vilkas is right when he says that all this wouldn't have happened if one of you had been with him. A real shield-sibling."

Athis just stared at me for a moment, then he stood up and went over to the counter. When he came back, he dropped a small key on the table. "Here, the key to your room. I've taken only one, I will sleep on the floor. In front of the door. Not taking the risk that you vanish in the middle of the night just because you're too scared to deal with this."

"I'm not scared! I just know my limits!"

"No, you don't." He took a long gulp from his ale.

"It seems now it's _you_ who has to get some things straight. You have _just now_ proven that you're a fabulous shield-sister, and believe me, I've probably fought with more people than you've ever known. This was your first job ever, it was unexpectedly difficult and dangerous _and_ you had to deal with a shield-brother running havoc, and you still brought him back alive. And that precious broken blade. You must have done at least something right."

"Not right enough," I muttered, and Athis exploded.

"By Azura, would you please stop fretting? Why do you believe every single word our highly-valued Master-of-Arms says and not one I try to hammer into your stubborn head? Or Aela, or Kodlak? Don't you think Farkas had a reason to take you with him?"

"Yes, he had. He wanted to test a theory. And now we see how this test turned out."

Athis leant forwards, suddenly serious. "Vilkas is an ass, Qhouri. He is a good Companion and a good man, an excellent warrior and a good friend, he is mad with fear for his brother and jealous because it was you who brought back this fragment, but he is also an ass. He can smell that you're scared of him, and he exploits it. Don't let him do that."

I bit my lip. He was right, I felt helpless in face of Vilkas, it had been the same in every single confrontation so far. And I felt helpless now when I lifted my gaze to his stern face.

"I just want this to be over, Athis. I just want Farkas to be healed."

"I know. But what do you want for yourself?"

My freedom. Go my own way. Escape the demands of others. But what I had thought to be a chance had only turned into a nightmare.

I shrugged, avoiding his eyes. "I don't know. Live my life, I suppose."

"You should think about it then." He emptied his mug in one long swig and stretched himself. "Let's go to bed, Qhouri. We'll take it from here tomorrow, okay?"

Unfortunately our room had two beds, standing on opposite sides of the room. I would have liked to fight with him for the place on the floor.


	10. Mending

The bright sunlight next morning woke my spirits, and Athis was downright cheerful. When he renewed his warpaint, he even managed to smear some white stripes over my cheeks. I felt silly, but he said it makes me look fierce.

After visiting the overjoyed trader and the blacksmith and his family, we finally turned our steps towards Whiterun – and with every step the shadows looming there became darker. I dreaded the moment I had to set foot into Jorrvaskr again and meet Vilkas' hate-filled eyes, but I also knew that Athis was right – I shouldn't let him harass me. On the other hand, although I knew I could rely on his support, I didn't want to bring him into this situation, to be chafed in a quarrel that wasn't his.

And so my first way back in Whiterun went to Dragonsreach to deliver the Dragonstone, hoping for a short reprieve, Athis joining me for a chat with Irileth. I knew that the small Dunmer community in Whiterun was knit together quite close, but the way the Jarl's housecarl greeted him proved that he had in fact excellent connections to the palace.

As soon as I entered Farengar's quarters, the question if and how to confront Vilkas and the others had taken care of itself; the whole Circle had gathered around the mage's desk, engaged in a heated discussion which abruptly stopped when I entered the room.

I felt my cheek blush from the sudden attention. Clearly I had disturbed them with something important, and Vilkas' eyes narrowed into the icy gaze I already knew. "You!"

"I'm sorry…," I muttered, "I'm just bringing the Dragonstone." I placed the heavy disc on Farengar's desk and was already half through the door again when I heard Kodlak's voice.

"Qhourian, wait. We've been waiting for your return." He wore a troubled frown when I turned to him, fatigue and stress written into the sharp lines of his face.

But it was Vilkas again who took a hesitating step towards me. A stroke of fear mingled with the older anger, but his clenched teeth showed clearly that the situation was as unpleasant for him as it was for me. I just hoped he wouldn't attack me here, in front of the others.

"We have to talk." It was only a low growl.

_We have to talk?_ There was nothing I _had_ to do, especially not with him. Divines, I was sick to death of his attitude. What did he want? Couldn't he just leave me alone? His face showed his resentment and how much it cost him to keep his composure. When he grabbed my elbow to lead me into a side room, I broke away violently.

"Do not touch me!" I snarled, clenching my hands into whiteknuckled fists and pressing them to my side. I wanted to wipe this biting arrogance from his face… but I wouldn't let him exploit me. And I wouldn't give him the satisfaction to lose control.

"You made yourself clear enough. You have found your culprit, and we have nothing to discuss." My eyes shifted to Kodlak. "Please… inform me what happens with Farkas."

I rushed, nearly ran for the exit, wanting nothing more than to get away. The cold callousness of this man made me seethe. He didn't really care for his brother. He didn't really care for anybody, it seemed. He just cared for himself, his injured pride and his reputation, but I wouldn't allow that he hurt me again. Nobody would hurt me again.

"Lots of mead and a room." Hulda, keeper and owner of the Bannered Mare, looked curiously when I made my curt order, but she didn't ask. Good innkeepers knew when to talk, when to listen and when it was best to ignore. At least I had earned the funds to pay for bed and meals – liquid meals - in the meantime, the Riverwood trader had been generous with his reward.

The mead helped not to fret and to ponder, at least not about the future. Instead I brooded over the past, what had gone wrong, where had I made mistakes. It wasn't all my fault, but nothing would have happened if I had simply left Jorrvaskr as soon as I was able to. But I didn't, and it set a series of events in motion in which bad luck, unfortunate coincidences and my own stupidity led to the horror Farkas had to go through now.

And there was nothing I could do. Nothing but to keep away from all of it as far as possible and drink myself into Oblivion. The Companions had wanted to see me shitfaced drunk, too bad they missed this chance.

When the inn slowly filled, I had found a quiet place on a table apart from the crowd, and Hulda supplied me with a full mug every time mine neared the bottom. Nothing mattered but the sweet strong mead burning in my stomach and dazing my brain. Soon the room was bustling with talk and laughter and song, and I just let the noise swash over me.

My head already felt comfortably hazy when Mikael, the bard, took the chair beside me.

"I deserve a break. Thanks for keeping a free place for me, Milady."

His pretty, cleanly shaven face showed his usual trademark smile he probably considered charming. Blonde locks fell into his eyes not because they were tangled or unkempt, but because they were cut exactly that way. I just stared at him blankly and turned back to my tankard, but that didn't put him off. He relaxed on his seat, legs stretched out, nipping on a goblet of wine and humming a soft melody, but I could feel his focused gaze on me. I had known men like him. Men who didn't take a _No_ for an answer and no answer at all as approval, men who considered themselves as the Divines' gift to the women they laid their eyes upon. They were disgusting, Mikael was disgusting in his boyish, forceful intrusiveness, but tonight… tonight, it didn't matter. I barely noticed when he approached, his index tracing my wrist and his breath hot when he whispered in my ear.

"I haven't seen you dance. Don't you enjoy the music? I could play something… special. Something special for a beautiful lady."

No answer was as good as approval. I didn't react when he came even closer and when he put his arm around my shoulders, pulling me close, his thumb caressing chin and neck down to the edge of my armour. His breath and his touch were sickening, but I had endured worse. The mead was still sweet, after all. It didn't matter when his whisper became moist. "Why so sad, my pretty? Let me play for you…"

It didn't matter when he turned my face to his lips, his eyes sparkling with the excitement of conquest. I watched myself with an astonishment that didn't make it any more into coherent thoughts. It didn't matter, he'd do anyway what he wanted, and I was just too tired to do anything against it.

But it also didn't matter when he was suddenly gone.

"Take your dirty hands off her, filthy rat!"

Blood gushed out of his nose when Skjor's heavy fist made contact with his jaw, the bard crumbling like a pile of rubble. His pathetic whimper was by far the best performance he had given that evening, and I burst into hysterical laughter.

"Thank you, Skjor" I slurred, tugging at the edge of his armour and trying to pull him down on Mikael's chair, "I don't even like blondes. My saviour. Drink with me." I held my tankard up to his chest, the sticky liquid sloshing over my wrist. He didn't budge, and I pouted at him. "You don't grant me the smallest bit of fun. _Too dangerous_ to have fun." I tried to growl the words, but somehow they changed miraculously into another fit of giggles. He didn't look dangerous. I thought he looked funny with his one eye and these silly stripes over his face.

I took Mikael's abandoned goblet and emptied it in one gulp. The mead was better, wine was only for milkdrinkers. The Companion looked down on me, his one eye flaring with wrath. It didn't matter. He wasn't dangerous.

"Hulda, which one's her room?" he shouted through the room. The inn keeper just pointed at the door. I felt myself hurled over his shoulder and then dropped onto a mattress. Hanging upside down, with the blood shooting into my brain came the nausea.

"Stop the foolery, Qhourian. Sleep that off, I see you tomorrow."

The door was slammed shut with a kick.

With the light came the pain, a herd of mammoths dancing in circles through my head, a giant shepherd drumming the rhythm. With his club. On my skull. The dry taste of a rotting skeever in my mouth was downright pleasurable against that.

With the pain came the memories, and with the memories the humiliation.

Farengar. Athis. Vilkas. Skjor! Gods, he had said he would see me today. Why did I remember that? But I remembered everything. That obnoxious bard, and the crunching sound of his breaking nose.

Divines.

He came in as I tried to drown the mammoths in a gallon of a horrible concoction Hulda sold me as hangover tea. It didn't taste much better than rotten skeever, but mammoths can swim. And giants can too. He didn't look funny any more as he dropped down on the chair opposite of me. Only angry, tired and sad.

I didn't dare to answer his glare, blood rushing into my cheeks under his scrutiny. At least he came straight to the point.

"Tonight we will try to cure him," he finally started to speak. "Farengar thinks... that you've been right. He thinks his soul was torn apart, and he will try to mend it. It won't be easy, it will be dangerous and no one knows if it will work. But Farengar also said it would help if you were there."

Slowly I lifted my gaze to his face. "And what do _you_ think, Skjor?"

His eyes were hard like granite. "I think he deserves that we do everything in our power to help him. He's our shield-brother."

He included me into this sentence, reminding me of my duty, and he was right. Everything else was irrelevant. I nodded slowly. "I will be there."

I left the city and ran over the plains of Whiterun, away from the hall, from the Companions, away from my fortune and my fears, my responsibility and my failure. I ran the familiar loop I had run with Farkas so often, until my legs became numb pistons, until I felt nothing any more but the blood hammer in my head. I yelled at the sun until there were no cries and no tears left, and I wore myself out.

In the end, I finally understood that it was too late to run away. That I was in too far, and that my future hang on the outcome of this night.

I returned when the twin moons rose on the still light sky. Aela waited for me in front of Jorrvaskr, her facing flashing when I came up the stairs.

"What am I to do?"

"I don't know. Farengar will explain you everything."

We entered a hidden door which led to a cavern under the Skyforge, the air hot and humid. The large narrow hall contained nothing but some empty pedestals, a large basin and a few torches spreading a flickering light. The motionless body of Farkas lay on a blanket in the middle of the room, clad only in a light tunic. His face was deadly pale and shimmering with sweat, his breathing shallow and strained.

The Circle had gathered again, and Farengar. The tension was nearly corporeal, I saw fear and unease and anxiety in the faces surrounding me. And hope.

The mage drew me aside, Kodlak joined us.

"Qhourian, it was your idea that led to the decision to try this. It's an experiment I'd prefer to delay until I know exactly what the outcome will be, but Farkas becomes weaker. We have to act." He pointed at the black stone lying on one of the pedestals.

"You still don't know exactly what happened to him? And what will happen now?"

"No. I suspect his soul was... split in halves somehow, but I have no idea how something like that could occur at all. Perhaps you killed the mage before the spell was complete, perhaps Farkas was able to fight it, hold a part of him back. Perhaps his wolf saved him." He gave me a weak smile. "Perhaps he will be able to tell us afterwards."

"And what will you do?" My voice was weak and anxious.

"We will try to reunite the parts. Make him whole again. There are ways to release the energy of a soul from a soulstone and to transfer it into something else. Something, mind you, not someone. As far as I know, to return a soul – or a piece of it - into a living being has never been tried before, but I think I know how to make it work. In the end, this soul belongs into this body. Their separation is unnatural. I hope it has the… wish to return."

Kodlak chimed in.

"The beastblood is the key, Qhouri. It keeps Farkas alive, but it also must be weakened for Farengar's spell to have a chance of success. Farkas is still fighting, has probably been fighting all the time, somewhere deep inside of him. But if we wait too long, the wolf will take him over completely. I daren't imagine what kind of existence that would be."

He looked intently at me. "You know when the beast is weakest?"

No, of course not. I shook my head.

"In the moment we return to our human form. It's a battle of man against wolf, every single time, but it's a battle Farkas can't win in his current state. That's why we're all here."

He took a deep breath, worry flitting over his face. And over Farengar's. "We will form the pack, and we will use the power of our bond to challenge the beast in him. It will not be able to resist our call - Farkas will not be able to resist. We are his pack, his family, he will change and join us. And then we will fight it until it surrenders, because he can't do it on his own."

My eyes widened. This was _insane_. The Companions fighting each other, in werewolf form? To _save_ one of them? But the two Nords looked as confident as possible, even Farengar. Who was I to doubt?

"What am I to do?"

"Honestly, I'm not sure. But you've been with Farkas when it happened. Your face is perhaps his last conscious memory - if he still has something like memories at all. It's not much more than a guess, but it could help him to come back when you're around, when he can sense that you're near. I suppose, when the moment comes, you will know what to do."

It was breathtaking. Frightening, but breathtaking. I had at least once witnessed the incredible process of the transformation of a human being into a beast, but Farengar was entirely unprepared - and we observed something probably nobody had ever seen before and lived to tell about it.

The four Companions gathered around Farkas, and as if by a hidden command, it began. Muscles, bones and fur grew, faces became fangs, blue and grey and green Nordic eyes transformed into inhuman yellow irises. I was astonished that I was still able to distinguish them – the auburn shimmering pelt of Aela, Skjor was one-eyed even in wolf-form, and the dark grey Alpha, his mane bristled and thick, a black stripe running along his spine and ending in the tip of his tail. Only Vilkas looked like his brother, pitch black, vibrating with nervous energy.

When the change was complete, I saw twitching ears and glowing eyes, the hunger of the hunt threatening to take them over. But they were still Companions, and the grey Alpha who was Kodlak in another life lowered himself on all fours, the others joining him.

A fourfold howl, earshattering, daunting and still harmonious echoed through the cavern. The pack was formed. Farengar beside me watched without blinking, mesmerised and fascinated. He didn't look afraid – it seemed Kodlak had prepared him well.

The circle became closer, the room filled with bestial odours. And then the body between the beasts started to twitch and lash out, and the wolves relished in his reactions to their presence. He still fought the power of his beast, but they invited, they forced it to join them. When his eyes abruptly opened, they had lost their silver-blue humanity, golden pupils glowing in the near darkness. Another howl erupted, the Aela-wolf snapped after her brother, her fangs only a hair's breadth from his face. The human answered the howl, roaring from the depths of his throat, and then the wolf finally took control. Farkas changed.

His weakness vanished when bones cracked and expanded, muscles swelled, joints popped and new senses took control of his brain. He was hungry. He wanted to hunt with his pack, wanted to kill and feed and relish in the ecstasy of the moment. Turning for the exit, he found his way blocked. The Skjor-wolf snapped at him, his deadly teeth glittering in the torchlight. The others surrounded him closely, circled around him, their stance aggressive. They were the pack, and they were hunting – but him, not with him.

The sheer power and the elegance of their movements reminded me of a dance. Farkas tried to break out, but always one of his pack-mates was in his way, over and over again he was cornered between their flews. Was it a game? What did they want? He was the largest of them all, pitch black the fur, but he wasn't Alpha. His Alpha had turned against him. They snapped at his tail and feet and muzzle, always short of wounding him.

Everything was wrong. His pack had abandoned him, but he didn't smell any bloodlust in them, just determination. There were others in the cave - familiar, not prey, but also not pack. He wasn't prey either. With a bark he jumped and broke free, made for the corner and the exit in long strides. Pain shot through him when he sensed the fangs of his brother in his neck, piercing fur and muscles, the force of the impact crushing him down. And there they were again, cutting his path, forcing him with his back to the wall, feral wrath in their glowing eyes. The smell of his own blood made him frantic. He spinned, looking for a way out of the trap, and his vision blurred, not setting apart prey from pack any more. He wanted to shed blood, the blood of the others, wanted to tear them apart and hurt them like they hurt him, and his attack came with frenzied rage, his fangs buried in muscular thighs. The howl was met by his own, he bit deeper, but then his Alpha - still his Alpha - stood before him, greyhaired, striking and strong, with bristled neck and bared fangs. His threatening growl was superior. The strength of the pack compelled his surrender.

Was this what they wanted? Not destroy, not kill but vanquish? Did they want him to submit? The black wolf finally gave in with a whelp-like whimper, the strength of his Alpha forcing him down. He cowered and turned to his back, felt fangs around his muzzle and on his throat, but not hurting this time, just keeping him down. There was his pack-sister, looking down on him with grey eyes. Something was different. They were different. No. Something was missing. _He_ was different, he was missing… something.

The pressure around his throat became fiercer when he was struck. The shivering blue line pierced the beast in the core of its existence - and he remembered.

He remembered the pain, the fear and the hopelessness, the feeling of being lost, of a loss, irreplaceable and indispensable. Something was taken from him, had left him severed and split apart. Something that made him whole. He was beast, but he was also something else, like his mates. He needed it back if he wanted to be allowed to join his pack again.

He remembered the loneliness. He had never been so alone.

And he remembered this face that had never left him. Nothing had followed him into the void, and still it had been there, unafraid, not leaving him alone. Not prey, not pack, with eyes not the colour, but the nature of a wolf. It had helped him before, it would help him again. He could smell that face. It was near.

Time seemed to have slowed. The werewolves formed a stack of limbs, claws, fangs and fur, Vilkas and Skjor had locked their jaws into their brother, the auburn figure of Aela towering above them. Her eyes searched my face. Were werewolves able to smile?

Every step took ages. I didn't belong to them, and a single strike of their claws could tear me apart. But they were calling me, and I knelt down beside them. Farkas was still captive in the merciless grip of his brothers, twitching against their strength, trying to move his head, his restless gaze searching. When our eyes met, it stopped. I knew this gaze, it was the same he had shown after the fight against the Silver Hand - and after that first night, when we had warmed each other against the terror. The eyes of a beast, of a monster, of a nightmare, nothing but feral instincts – and beneath it, a glimpse of silver. A glimpse of reason.

Suddenly all doubts were gone, all that was left were certainty and faith. His fur felt strange under my fingers when I touched the side of his monstrous face - rough, bristly, sticky with drivel and blood.

"Come back to us, Farkas. Come back, brother."

He didn't show any reaction, lay motionless as I stroked along his long jaw - I didn't know if I had expected one. I felt more than saw Skjor release him and rise to his feet, and still he didn't move. The silence in the cavern was absolute, everyone seemed to hold their breath, men and wolves alike. Until it was broken by a growled moan, Vilkas rising to his feet and locking eyes with his brother before he started to change back. I could see how it hurt, how it strained his self-control, but he didn't leave his twin's gaze for a single moment. And I was the first to sense beneath my palm that Farkas followed him.

When we left the cavern, Farkas in our midst, still silent and withdrawn, all of the Companions awaited us in the training yard. It was their reaction, their open joy and relief - and Farkas' first weary smile - that finally let a tension evaporate from my mind I wasn't even aware that it had controlled me during the last days. When Aela slung an arm around my shoulder, her eyes shimmering moist, I grasped her wrist and gave her a beaming smile. Jorrvaskr, that wasn't the place any more where fate had simply dropped me. It wasn't the place where others wanted me to be. During these last hours it had become the place where I wanted to stay.

The next days were a haze of emotions, and not only for me. Relief quivered like smoke through Jorrvaskr. It spawned smiles on every face, old hostilities and aversions were set aside. I wanted to drown in these feelings.

Vilkas and I avoided each other during this time, and still something had changed. He appeared more relaxed, relieved of course, and the twins were practically glued together, keeping mostly to themselves. To watch the brothers sit in a corner and speak quietly, to see how he treated his brother so differently from everybody else, not just me, how they obviously relied on each other, it made me let go of my anger.

He didn't like me, and I didn't like him, nothing would change that. But he had been mad with fear for his brother, and to see them together now woke the memories of something I once had myself. Too long ago to miss it, I had been only a child, but it made me understand him.

And still it was a surprise when Vilkas approached me. If anything I would have thought that he'd catch me somewhere we could speak in private and perhaps for once without this display of power he liked so much. But instead he joined Aela and me one morning while we were skinning a deer she had brought from her hunt. I recognised absentmindedly and with some astonishment that it had been killed by an arrow. I shouldn't be surprised that she used a weapon to bring her prey down, but it only showed how much at ease I was with her... nature.

Vilkas dropped unceremoniously on the bench beside her, grabbed a piece of meat and started to slice it into thin stripes that would be salted and dried at the fire later, his motions fast and adept as if he did this every day. I had never seen him doing something so profane before.

"What are you gonna do now, Qhourian?" he asked casually and straight to the point. Aela suppressed a grin when she recognised how he catched me completely on the wrong foot.

"Yeah, I'd like to know that as well."

My gaze wandered from face to face, unsure if they made fun of me or if they were genuinely interested. And Vilkas! Why Vilkas? He was the last I expected to ask this question, and it made me suspicious.

Especially as I didn't have an answer. On the one hand, I wanted to stay. But if I applied for membership, it would be a decision that would change everything, that would determine my further life completely. I would have to give up the freedom I had fought so hard for and commit myself to this life and this cause completely. I was entirely my decision, but I wasn't sure if I was ready to make this commitment.

I avoided their curious looks and shrugged.

"What are your alternatives, Qhouri?" Aela asked.

"I can always go back and..."

"Don't be silly. You know that's not an option," Vilkas interrupted me harshly.

"Of course it is!" I flared up, "and when it becomes too hard I can always go to Falkreath!"

"And do what?"

"Make myself useful. Somehow," I mumbled. This turned into a cross-examination, and I didn't like it at all.

"The only way to make yourself useful in Falkreath is as a corpse," Vilkas said dryly. His hands stilled, his eyes pierced into mine. Aela snorted out a laughter. "There is another alternative. I want you to stay here. I want you to become a Companion."

His gaze didn't leave my face, taking in my bewilderment with a wry smirk. There it was again, the arrogance I hated so much, his unfaltering certainty that _he_ could tell _me_ what to do. That he didn't even need physical violence to get his way. That everybody would not only anticipate, but fulfil his wishes without question.

But I wasn't afraid of him any more, and the fury boiled over. "And you think I care for what _you_ want, Sir Master-of-Arms? You really think you can tell me what you want and I'll just comply? And when you tell me to jump off Jorrvaskr, you probably expect the same obedience?" I jumped up, pressing my bloody palms onto the table. I was seething. "Thank you for making my decision so much easier!"

"Qhouri...," Aela said soothingly, but I interrupted her. "No!" I bent forward until my face was only inches from Vilkas'. He had taken my outbreak totally unfazed. "You think you can order me around, Vilkas? Surprise, you can't!"

"But he's right, Qhouri," Aela's calm voice came from behind me, "it would be crazy to go out there now, all alone."

I spun around. "Hardly crazier than to stay here," I sneered. "Skyrim is big, you know? So many possibilities..."

Vilkas let out an unimpressed snort. He leant back, his arms crossed over his chest, and an entirely unamused grin spread over his face. Unamused, devious... and complacent. Our eyes locked, his icy gaze against my fury, and slowly it dawned on me. He was content, utterly pleased with my reaction. This was exactly what he wanted, what he had hoped to provoke, and now he trusted that my stubbornness wouldn't let me back out again.

That bastard!

I wanted to scream my rage out over the plains and breathed heavily, trying to calm myself. I looked through him, and I wouldn't let him force me to do anything I didn't want. He was right in only one point: that I had to make a decision. And I would. Right now.

When I felt Aela's hand on my shoulder, I tore away from his unfaltering gaze and turned slowly, forcing my expression into a friendly grin. "What do _you_ think, Aela? You think I could make myself useful if I stayed here?"

"Of course you could. You know my opinion on this."

"Okay." I stood up, rammed my dagger into the tabletop and rushed through the doors, the main hall and down the stairs, ignoring the steps that came after me. They wouldn't stop me.

But of course I had to stop when Vilkas grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. At least he removed his hand as soon as I faced him.

"Where are you going?"

"Kodlak," I pressed out between clenched teeth, "don't try to stop me."

Suddenly his features relaxed, and a small smile quirked his lips. A real, nearly gentle smile. "I won't," he said lowly, "unless you're going to tell him goodbye."

"You wish!" I hissed, "no, I'm gonna..." His smile deepened, and the meaning of his words dropped in. "What?"

He shook his head, and the smile flashed into a grin. "You're far too easy to rile up." He took a deep breath. "I meant what I said, Qhourian. That I want you to stay. And I'm sorry."

_"What?"_

"You're gonna apply for membership?"

"Yes." I straightened my shoulders.

"Good. I'd like to talk to you. In private and in earnest. If you don't mind. Either now... or whenever you find the time." He paused for a moment, taking in my incredulous, flabbergasted expression. "Please."

I was dumbfounded. This wasn't the Vilkas I knew. The bastard. I held his eyes wearily. "You don't want to change my mind? Or hold me back with brute force?"

"No. Of course not." For the first time, his expression showed a trace of uneasiness, and it piqued my curiosity.

"Okay."

It was the first time that I entered one of the private rooms of one of the Circle-members. Vilkas' was small and crammed full, beside a bed, a wardrobe, an armour-stand and a weapon-rack there was a large shelf stuffed with books, a desk cluttered with parchments and even more books and a small alchemy table. He offered me the only chair and sat down on his bed himself.

He clenched his hands in his lap and seemed nervous, something that intrigued me only more.

"I should have trusted my brother's judgement," he said finally. "Sometimes he's more brawn than brain, but he seldom errs when it comes to people."

"And that means what?" I asked wearily.

"That he likes you for a reason." He took a deep breath. "I'm not entirely sure yet what _exactly_ his reasons are, but... you have probably recognised already that it's nearly impossible... no, that it's entirely impossible to keep secrets in Jorrvaskr."

"Yeah, obviously," I snorted.

"I didn't trust you because you so obviously kept so much from us. You were here for so long already... of course we asked ourselves if you wanted to stay. We didn't know where you came from, only that you had been alone before... and no one could fathom that you wanted to return to that life. But you were so reticent, and... well, you know in the meantime that we have our secrets too. We can't risk to let someone join and see afterwards if he or she fits in, we have to be sure beforehand. And you made it hard to be sure."

"It wasn't your business, Vilkas. It still isn't. I never planned to stay. I never gave any indication that I wanted to stay."

"I know," he said lowly, "I misjudged you. But now you've made a decision."

"It's about time," I said with a weak grin.

"What happened with Farkas, it wasn't your business either. You weren't supposed to see all this, to experience all this... but you did. And you seemed a convenient culprit. But you weren't, and I knew it, and I owe you an explanation."

"You owe me nothing."

He gave me a small smile, and somehow the atmosphere relaxed. "Perhaps not. But I want you to know." He made a gesture not to interrupt him. "See... Farkas would have been fine, even after the fucked up change in the cairn. We've been in similar situations before, and usually he can deal with something like that. He would have been fine until you returned to Whiterun if it hadn't been for the necros."

He stared into the distance. "We were only four when our parents were killed by necromancers. A Companion found and rescued us. I don't remember it... but Farkas does, and that's why he lost control." Now his eyes turned back to me, bright, clear and determined. "I've seen him like this on other occasions, and it would have been worse if I had been with him. But you dealt with him in the only way possible, you saved him, and we owe you his life... and more than that. It's nothing I can make up for, but you shall know that I'm aware of it. And that I'm sorry."

"I know you were afraid for him."

He clenched his teeth. "Yes. But that's no reason to..."

In interrupted him. "I know how you felt, Vilkas. How you feel when it comes to your brother."

I wasn't sure if it was smart to be so blunt with him. But he had taken this step, and it hadn't come easy to him. I could afford to give him something back.

"What do you mean?" A trace of suspiciousness was back in his eyes.

I gave him a weak grin. "Or perhaps I don't, because I was only ten when I lost my sister. But I know how it feels to have a twin."

"You're a twin too?"

"I was."

I endured his piercing gaze without faltering, until he broke the contact with a grunt. "That is nearly... ironic."

I grinned. "Yes, it is."

It became quiet between us. It was ironic that perhaps he was the one of all the Companions I knew most about in the meantime. But he knew even more about me, and I was also aware that his openness now was more than just remorse and contrition – it was also a challenge. He was manipulative, and a tiny voice in the back of my head whispered the subtext of this whole conversation into my ear. _Deal with it_, it said. _You've no idea what you've gotten yourself into._ And _There's more to come. You know nothing so far._

I didn't trust him. I didn't believe him that he told me all this without calculating, even if he seemed genuine now. Vilkas didn't do anything without ulterior motives, and it wasn't that we had become best friends forever all of a sudden. But he didn't trust me either, not completely, and with that we were on par. At least we had something like a basis now.


	11. Dragonborn

"I have an announcement to make!"

The mead hall was filled for dinner, but the Harbinger's deep voice drowned out the chatter easily. At least a dozen faces turned curiously to the man standing on top of the stairs, the noise instantly dying away.

"The last days have been hard for all of us. The fragment of Wuuthrad Farkas and Qhourian brought back was paid dearly for. We nearly lost our brother, and Qhouri wouldn't be here any more as well if not for the... persuasive skills of some of our members. But it's overcome. Farkas is cured, a cure which is unique in history and which was achieved through the help of many people - and not only Companions. And Qhourian has expressed her wish to become a formal member.

More than enough reasons to not only celebrate her official introduction. I want a feast in these halls Whiterun will remember for a long time!"

A wave of applause surged up and warmed my heart although I already knew that Kodlak had planned something. But even more important was the warm smile Farkas returned when I sought his face.

I hadn't spoken with him since the night in the Underforge - no, actually since the day after Dustman's Cairn. His presence in Jorrvaskr was comforting, but he still kept for himself, spending long hours alone, with Vilkas or Kodlak. He joined us for the meals, also had started his training again, but didn't engage in the everyday chitchat and hadn't been out on jobs again yet. Everybody was aware that it would take some time for him to come to terms with everything that had happened. But at least he was with us again.

Of course the initiation of a new member wasn't something trivial, but it wasn't that unusual either, Ria had joined only a few months before me. But the fuss my shield-siblings made about the ceremony boosted my nervousness into Oblivion. When Athis polished my mace for the third time, Torvar offered another mug of mead "for your nerves, you'll need it, girl!", Ria presented me another design of warpaint which "will look _perfect_ on you!" and Aela spread the contents of her wardrobe on my bed, all of it far too small for me "because you can't go in those rags!", I exploded.

"All of you, stop it! Athis, you promised nothing would change with this, but now I feel like I'm gonna be ritually slaughtered! I will stay as I am, wear my usual armour, and let's just get over with it!"

The whole dorm burst with laughter. They only meant well after all, but it took some more effort to convince them that I really preferred to go in an outfit I felt comfortable in, and that I didn't need any fancy colours and jewellery. The only trinket I accepted was an amulet of Kynareth. She had always been by far my favourite member of the Nine Divines, though I preferred to think of her as Kyne, the Mother of Men, goddess of battle and hunt. To wear her token tonight seemed appropriate.

The fun part was over at sunset when Aela led me through Jorrvaskr's back door into the former training yard. The training dummies, straw targets and weapon racks had been removed, instead it was decorated with flowers, lights and torches, the tables laden with delicacies, and in one corner a complete boar roasted above an open fire. All of the Companions and Eorlund had gathered, the members of the Circle forming the centre of the crowd. When Aela had taken her place beside Skjor, Kodlak stepped forward.

"We have gathered tonight to welcome Qhourian in our midst. She has proven the skill required for a life in these halls, and she has proven that her heart burns with the fire of a true warrior. She has shown that she can be the shield and the blade in an honourable battle.

"Who will witness her worth?"

Vilkas stepped up. I knew this was a formalised ritual, and that three of them would have to speak for me - Vilkas had promised to be one of them, Athis probably another, but I didn't know who'd be the third. And I didn't know what exactly they would say.

"I witness the worth of this woman. She has the heart of a warrior, and she has the soul of a Companion. She sets her own needs aside for the needs of her siblings. She bears pain and injustice to ease the suffering of others. She is worthy."

As suspected, Athis was the next. His typical warm smile usually only showed up when he was about to tease me, but didn't want to be taken seriously. He was dead serious now.

"I witness the worth of this woman. She fights with the agility of a cat and the strength of a bear. She was by my side against terrible foes, showing neither fear nor weakness. She was the shield in my back, as I was hers. She is worthy."

When he stepped back, it became silent. It was Aela who finally spoke.

"I witness the worth of this woman. I witness not only the power of her arm, but also the strength of her mind. She doesn't falter in the face of resistance, follows the path of honour and pride even against opposition. She is worthy."

It was done. Kodlak already advanced to speak the final words when another dark voice chimed in.

"I witness the worth of this woman."

It took me a second to realise that it was Farkas. He hadn't moved, but when our eyes met, he held my gaze with burning intensity. Even Kodlak's face showed surprise. This wasn't planned.

"She stayed with me against superior forces. She stayed with me when I sent her away, in the darkest darkness and through her own fears. She stayed with me when nobody else was left, and she stayed with me through my hardest fight. She is worthy."

Fortunately Kodlak recovered much faster than me and I wasn't required to say anything. When he spoke the final phrase, a phrase which had been used for ages every time a new Companion was introduced, I spoke the words silently with him.

"We stand witness to the courage of the soul who stands before us. We will stand at her back, that the world may never overtake us. Our blades stand ready to meet the blood of her foes, and we will sing the song of triumph as our Hall revels in her stories."

The Harbinger closed the short distance between us and squeezed me in a bearlike embrace before he presented me the insignia of my membership - a beautiful Skyforge mace. The first weapon of my life that was truly mine, and for the first time I had the feeling that I had earned it. "Welcome, Qhourian. I think I speak for all of us when I say that this is a good moment for the Companions of Jorrvaskr." I was only able to nod, my throat constricted with tears and joy.

I had absolutely no idea what it really meant when Kodlak wanted a feast _Whiterun wouldn't forget_.

This was different from every feast I had attended before, all these improvised parties after a mission well done, a farewell or simply some guests visiting Jorrvaskr, even different from the Harvest Festival. This was an official celebration. Many of the citizens of Whiterun were invited, Farengar of course, Danica from the temple, Irileth, Eorlund and some of his Grey-Mane relatives and many more. Hulda from the Bannered Mare and Carlotta Valentia had helped out with the food, and Torvar had used his excellent connections to the Honningbrew meadery to fill the cellar to the brim with ale, wine and mead. We even had a bard this time - Sven from Riverwood had come, as nobody wanted to see or hear that pesky Mikael, and he couldn't sing anyway with his broken nose.

Everything was well prepared, and when the guests arrived, we sat already comfortably in a large round around the fire. Everybody, even Skjor and Vilkas who were rarely seen in anything but their heavy wolf armours, had changed into more comfortable tunics and shirts, the daggers tied to their belts only suitable to slice the meat on their platters. The guards were informed that a bigger part of Whiterun's citizens would gather here tonight, and they would keep an eye on the surroundings.

There were some awkward moments after the initiation rite when all the Companions came forth for a hug and congratulations, but they were over fast. Everybody was a bit stirred, so my blinking away the tears and clumsy attempts to find words of thanks, especially for Vilkas, Athis and Aela, were just laughed away. Farkas was the last to approach me outside. He gave me a faint, nearly shy smile, laying his hands on my shoulders. "I'm glad that this wolf brought you here, Qhouri. And that these other wolves made you stay." And then he pulled me close, his arms around my back. I didn't flinch back, felt his warmth and took in his scent. It was familiar… and it was just a moment of peace and tranquillity. We didn't have to talk - not now, not yet.

It was a glittering, joyous, glorious night. Although I didn't accept by far every tankard that was offered, I felt the alcohol rush to my head far too soon, but it didn't matter. For once all sorrows and doubts dropped away - I wholeheartedly enjoyed the moment, surrounded by friends. Sven sang and played his heart out and was soon joined by others, especially Ria's flute rose again over the noise. I couldn't remember when I had split my sides laughing the last time, but when Athis' and Njada's dance first led to an argument about who stepped on whose toes first, then a wrestle with both of them trying to crunch the other's feet and finally resulted in them vanishing outside, glued together with lips and busy hands, I nearly burst. They had a strange love-and-hate relationship, those two, and I just hoped the hotblooded Nordic woman would keep my favourite, always freezing Dunmer warm.

I had nearly forgotten that I was supposed to be the protagonist of the evening when Farengar sat down beside me. He was relaxed like I had never seen him before, though our meetings so far had of course taken place under much more dire circumstances.

"Qhouri, every new Companion is a gain for Whiterun, and that you have decided to stay makes not only me glad. In my capacity as a friend of Jorrvaskr, participant in the recent events and official representative of Jarl Balgruuf, I want to present you with this."

He pulled a huge crystal from a pouch and placed it on the table, glowing red and orange like the core of the sun itself. The whole round went silent. My eyes widened, never had I seen something so beautiful and precious. Touching it, I felt a subtle warmth.

"It's… it's awesome!"

"Yes, it is, but don't get too attached to it," the mage smirked. "This is a soulgem, filled with the soul of a mammoth. It's powerful, and I will enchant whatever you want with it and show you how it works. How it is supposed to work."

I didn't have to think about it twice. "Could you make me an amulet? With protection against magic?"

"A necklace? Of course… but that's an unusual choice. Have you thought about some extra damage for your new weapon? Or an improvement of your armour?"

I touched the gem reverently. "No, thank you, Farengar, I'm sure you can do incredible things with this and all these ideas are great. But... if you have to destroy it, I'd like a bit of protection."

I knew I had too much when finally the last guests had left and I staggered down the stairs, arm in arm with Ria and Torvar, giggling like a little girl, my head swimming with excitement and joy and mead. Especially mead. Far too much mead.

When we had reached the hallway with much stumbling and laughing, Torvar planted himself in front of me, suddenly appearing nearly sober again, and poked an affirmative index into my chest.

"Mission accomplished!"

I wanted to return the gesture, but instead I clenched my fist into the fabric of his tunic. Suddenly the room started to spin around me.

"What do you mean?" I slurred.

His grin was smug. "Shitfaced plastered. Yeah."

I squared my shoulders, but a tenacious hiccup quashed my efforts to stand steadily. "I'm not! I can still stand. And walk." I yanked my hand away from his shirt. "All on my own." To prove it I made a staggering step backwards, just to stumble into Ria who pressed her palm against her mouth to stifle her laughter. She held me upright with a firm grip around my waist.

"This, dear sister, is just a matter of practice. You'll get there, you show potential. Sooner or later Farkas will have to carry you to bed, I promise."

No, he wouldn't, not if I had a saying in that. I gave him a derisive snort and turned as graceful as possible. The spinning got faster and more blurry, and I had to lay down. Fast, but all on my own. Not that it helped.

But it didn't become entirely obvious how much too much it had been until next morning. The racket upstairs woke me - woke us - brutally, far too fast and in the middle of the night. Which was, to tell the truth, only short of noon. The heavy thumps on the front door and subsequent frantic yelling in the main room was heard easily in the living quarters, and not even my pillow could lock the noise out. I woke with the inevitable pelt of a rotten skeever between my teeth, my head clamped in a vice of thrumming pain. Torvar - of all people, Torvar! - ran from bed to bed and tried to throw us out.

"Get up, you drunken lot, Whiterun's under attack! By a _dragon_!"

There must have been something in this devilish mead that caused severe hallucinations. Or nightmares. And even if Whiterun was indeed under attack of a dragon, wasn't that exactly what the Jarl paid his guards for?

"Get something to drink, Torvar, you were much funnier yesterday," Ria muttered into her blanket.

But instead to stop, the turmoil came down the stairs and settled itself comfortably in our living quarters as every single one of us finally tumbled up and tried to prepare for battle. Lots of cursing ensued, inter- and exchanged armour pieces, misplaced weapons and hastily chugged down tankards with Tilma's hangover cure. But the prospect to fight a real dragon had obviously a more sobering effect on my siblings than a bath in a glacier lake. Of course I had to join them, as insane as they were in their enthusiasm - after all, we all knew the guards were spread thin, with the enforced patrols on the roads and in the smaller villages. And I knew first hand that the dragons weren't just a rumour.

Irileth awaited us at the gates with a group of her guards, mostly young men and women with shiny weapons and frightened eyes. But the joint forces of Jorrvaskr marching through the streets of Whiterun were a sight seldom seen, and her face lit up, despite the rather pitiful state most of us were in.

Dragons were supposed to be intelligent creatures, but that they scheduled their attacks directly after the largest party for years, this was something no scholar had recorded before. But they were also as large as intelligent, a fact that strangely gave me some hope. All of us carried a bow, but most of us simply wouldn't be able to hit anything smaller than the Jarl's palace.

"Thanks for coming, Companions, I knew Whiterun could count on you," Irileth said tersely as she led us out into the plains west of the city. "At the moment he's just at the western watchtower where one of my patrols tries to distract him. Not sure how successful they are, but we mustn't let him come near the walls!"

It's a dragon, Irileth. Dragons can fly. Walls mean nothing to them. But, although most of the buildings in Whiterun were at least partly built from stone, Jorrvaskr as well as Dragonsreach were wooden constructions. Easily flammable, they would burn like tinder. Yes, she had a point, besides the sheer madness to fight such a creature at all.

Strangely, as soon as the fresh air and the fast run had woken us completely, excitement took over. When I saw what was left of the watchtower, it mixed with anger: a smouldering ruin, with the dragon sitting on top, writhing in the sun, his fearsome head on the long neck swinging from side to side.

It wasn't the same that had destroyed Helgen, this one's scales shimmered in a lighter greyish-beige, and he was smaller than the black one. But I had the distinct feeling that he gauged us curiously as we approached carefully, and that he liked what he saw. For the first time I cursed my choice of armour - I wanted full plate, something with lots of thorns and spikes, just to look as indigestible as possible.

Irileth stopped in bow range, and for some time, nothing happened. How to fight a dragon? How to _start_ such a fight? The creature sat motionless on his overlook and grinned at us. Until one of the guards let his first arrow fly. Brave, stupid boy.

We learned fast.

First lesson: Dragons are unpredictable. Their movements through the three dimensions they have at their disposal is so fast that it's entirely impossible to predict where they will be the next moment, let alone chase them.

Second lesson: Cover is crucial. They don't care to land to attack, but they can grab things – and people – with their vicious claws directly from flight, a single flap of their wings taking them out of range again. And their fire breath is longranged and deadly.

Third lesson: If it's possible to target them for more than a second, it's in fact quite easy to hit them. Especially their wings. They're _really _huge.

Soon, but not after earning some painful blisters, I found a boulder the size of a carriage and with it my modus operandi. When the dragon circled above our heads, I jumped on top of it and tried to pierce him with as many arrows as possible. I didn't target carefully, every strike was a victory. When he came too close, I ducked behind my trusty rock and hoped not to be roasted alive.

It worked reasonably well, but I didn't see any progress - he had to be spiked like a pincushion with all of us firing at him in a similar manner, but it didn't look as if he even felt it. And not everybody was as lucky as I... Aela was hit badly by the roaring flames, a guard was carried away, screaming and flailing when the claws of the monster pressed into his flesh, and another one who had the foolish - or heroic - idea to try his luck in close combat and made his way to the top of the watchtower ruin was hurled to the ground by the spiky tip of his tail. He dropped limp at the bottom of the stairs.

Fortunately two of the healers from the temple had joined us to the battlefield. They were at least as heroic as the warriors, jumping in and dragging those not able to walk on their own any more out of immediate danger.

I certainly wasn't the only one who thought the dragon had simply become tired of our little game when he landed on the ruins again.

All of us froze in place when he started to laugh, the rumble more felt than heard and going directly to my stomach. A laughing dragon was much more fearsome than a dragon spitting fire, but a speaking dragon was even worse. His voice rang like a huge bell.

"Brit grah. I had forgotten what fine sport you mortals can provide! But you are brave. Balaan hokoron. Your defeat will bring me honour!"

Oh yes, we were at least as brave as desperate. When I heard him suck in the air for his next breath, I released my arrow, and I wasn't the only one. But mine hit the beast right into the eye. His loss it was as huge as every other part of him!

The roar that followed made the earth itself shiver, but when the dragon rose again, he had lost some of his elegance. His wings were already pierced at several points, and hot blood dripped from some wounds in his less protected throat and underside. And now from his jaws, out of his blinded eye socket.

The end of the battle was short and ferocious. He didn't rise as high any more, and a dragon shadowing the sun only a few feet above my head was something I'd never forget, especially when his claws snapped shut directly in front of my face. But his weakness was our opportunity to wound him more severely, as we aimed specifically for the soft skin of his underbelly and his open throat.

I wasn't prepared when he finally fell, nobody was. His roar became a screech, but he didn't simply collapse. His wings folded onto his back as he glided over the ground until the impact caused a wake of devastation, people jumping and bodies flying out of his path, the crash whirling up a cloud of dust and rocks above the giant body. He came to a stop directly in front of me, his one eye flaring with pain and wrath, piercing right through me.

"Dovahkiin! No!"

His shout ached in my bones, and I cowered, awaiting my inevitable annihilation in a jet of fire. It never came. The dragon was dead.

* * *

"Stop looking at me as if I were Malacath's bastard!"

It had been only one lousy day ago that I had finally found a tiny little bit of stability in my life. And now? I was a nervous wreck. Again.

Dragonborn. By the Gods!_ Dragonborn!_

My soul was perfectly fine. It worked flawlessly, whatever it was that mortal souls did every day. And I had enough of misplaced souls for the rest of my life. Especially when it came to the one of an oversized lizard.

I didn't want it!

What did that mean, anyway?

It seemed I could shout at dragons, and they apparently could hear me. Of course they could, they were not deaf! It also seemed I could shout in dragon speech. Yes, obviously, but only because I had been crazy enough to crawl through some long forgotten tombs where they left their writing exercises. I hoped they broke their claws on those walls. Anyway, I didn't consider a vocabulary of two words "knowledge", and many other people could do that as well. That crazy rebel up there in Windhelm for example, and he was much better than me. After all, he had killed the High King with his voice. Or these monks up on the highest point of Skyrim I was supposed to visit now. They had thousands of years to practice!

I had absolutely no idea what happened after that dragon finally did not kill me. I blamed the mead, the excitement and a pinch of fear for the swirls of light and the dizziness. And the lack of breakfast. When people started to stare, I just shouted at them to leave me alone. And then that soldier blamed me that he hit his head on the crumpling wall of the watchtower! _Me!_ Oh, he did so very respectfully, but please… guy, you fought a dragon! You should be happy to live and not whine over a bit of a headache!

Then there were those voices, this sinister roaring directly from the sky. Like a last greeting of the beast itself, long after only its skeleton was left. If only I had heard them, I really wouldn't have cared. But everybody did, unfortunately. When I proposed that Irileth should rather sooner than later check Honningbrew's secret mead recipe for any hallucinogens, she wasn't amused at all.

And the skeleton. Yes... this was something that was still there, the enormous twisted and bleached bones lying at the watchtower's base frighteningly tangible. It was something no one could ignore. No one could ignore that only a few bones were left of the mighty creature.

The rest of it was in me. They had seen it, I had felt it. And it scared me to death.

"Vilkas, Skjor, is there anything for me to do? Please? I go crazy with all these rumours and whispers and people pointing at me. How about getting Y'ffre's toothpick from Valenwood? Or I could look for Artaeum? Please? Think about the honour that would bring to the Companions! Anything? Preferably a job which keeps me away for_ some years_?"

"Oh, but you're exempted from Companion duties for the time being, Qhouri. No way we will waste your precious time with our meagre tasks now!"

The men just grinned at my despair. They didn't take me seriously, and it didn't seem they grasped the gravity of the situation. If I had to stay in Whiterun any longer, I would wreak havoc, from the stables up to Dragonsreach. With my voice. And I would start with Jorrvaskr.

In the end, I made my way up to the palace. No, it wasn't training for 7000 steps! Farengar had sent a courier with an invitation and a beautiful necklace, silver with some jadegreen stones and the question if this would suit me to be enchanted according to my wishes.

All joking and excitement aside, everybody in Jorrvaskr seemed to be as helpless and insecure about this dragon business as myself. No one could help, not even Kodlak or Vilkas. Especially not Vilkas - he had always shown a healthy suspicion against everything magic, and Farkas' recent experiences had only heightened his profound unease against everything only slightly mystic. A shield-sister suddenly speaking with dragons and devouring their souls was definitely far over the top.

I knew I had to do something. At least I could try to understand what was happening. The dragon in Helgen… yes, he was the miracle that had granted my survival, but I had pushed it aside. Never had I dreamt that it would affect me personally. Like everybody else, I believed that he had somehow appeared to rescue Ulfric Stormcloak, the rebellion leader, and that the appearance of more and more dragons was something like an aftershock. Whatever it was, it was either something strangely occult or a weird political incidence, and both were the last things I wanted to deal with while struggling for my life and trying for the first time to build up a future for myself.

The only person in Whiterun who could help with my sudden urge for knowledge was Farengar. After all I had retrieved the dragonstone for him, he was a scholar who had been studying dragons for some time now, and he owed me something. Or so I hoped.

On my way up to and through the palace I was shocked by the faces around me. These guards had fought by my side at the watchtower, but instead of a friendly greeting or a triumphant cheer for their sister in arms, all I met was the same glimpse of fright and awe I had seen in them before the fight. Just that it was fear of me now, of something they didn't understand. Horrible. This had to end.

The court mage was rummaging through piles of notes and books when I entered his quarters, some stacks already neatly built up on his desk.

"Here," he gestured towards them, "you can start reading right away, while I deal with your enchantment." He just smirked at my surprise. "Oh, and I feel honoured to aid the Dragonborn in any way possible, of course!"

"Leave me alone with that," I muttered. He had indeed gathered lots of information about dragons, their history, their language and their disappearance after the Dragon War. Not so much about their reappearance, though. But at least I learned what it meant to be a Dragonborn - historically. Not what it meant for me, personally, if it meant anything at all. I had never been overly religious. I knew about the Nine, somehow I even believed in them, some of them were more important than in others. I believed that it were nine and not eight and that no one, not even the Thalmor, could simply decide that a god was suddenly not divine any more. I believed that Nordic warriors spent an eternity in Sovngarde.

To have the soul of a dragon, gifted by Akatosh himself - that was an idea so unbelievably ridiculous I could just either go crazy or laugh about it. Or both.

The craziest thing was that it made sense. My reaction to the word walls, the dragon's reaction to me, his recognition with his last breath and the events after his death - when I stopped blaming the mead, it made an awfully frightening sense. This realisation hit me like lightning.

Farengar didn't disturb me although I left a mess on and around his desk. Only when I looked up again hours later, with burning eyes and empty head, he pulled a chair to my side.

"Okay, Qhouri. Anything else you want to know?"

"Yes. _Why me?_"

"Oh, that's something you have to ask someone else. Akatosh, for example." At least he didn't show this ridiculous awe I met everywhere.

"Honestly, I think a visit to the Greybeards is not the worst idea. They're probably the only ones who can help you any further, unless of course you want to find another dragon to teach you directly. They're the masters of the Thu'um, they've researched the Way of the Voice for thousands of years. But if you decide to make the trip, make it soon. The way up to High Hrothgar will be nearly impassable after the first real onset of winter."

It felt awful when I explained my intent to Kodlak after breakfast next morning. I didn't want to leave, and especially not for something like this.

"I will go to High Hrothgar and speak with those dragon guys. Is there anything useful I can do for the Companions on my way?"

Kodlak just looked at me respectfully, not surprised. As if he had known that I'd come to my senses.

"Good. One second, please." He left the room, only to come back with Farkas in tow.

"You will not go alone, Qhouri. You know we never go on any job alone, and it doesn't matter if we have a contract for it or not. Farkas will accompany you."

Farkas? I wanted to object. He was still recovering. He still needed time for himself. Vilkas would die with fear again. And after all, this wasn't their business, it had nothing to do with the Companions. But his confident, calm smile just let me sigh with relief, and I realised that not the dragons and their souls were my biggest fear, but that I would have to leave Jorrvaskr again and face this challenge all on my own.

"I've thought about it, Qhouri, and I won't let you go through this alone. After all, I've some experience with weird soul stuff." Perhaps he wasn't as reconvalescent any more as I had thought.

"Oh, and while we're at it, we could get rid of those thugs in the Valtheim Towers, the Jarl has a bounty on them. If you don't mind, of course."

Of course I didn't mind. I wanted to be _us__eful_, be a Companion and live my life just like all the others. Instead, I was suddenly a freak.

There was no use in further delay and we left right away. Athis wore his usual smirk when I embraced him closely. "I'm jealous, you know that? If these Greybeards weren't something so incredibly Nordic, I would've volunteered to join you. Promise to take me with you next time, that's so much more exciting than bandits and bears!" I would miss his lightheartedness.

The Valtheim towers provided a cosy quarter for the night after we had cleared them of their former inhabitants. Of course the resident bandits outnumbered us, but they were also spread out quite far - some of them patrolling the street, some of them in both of the ruined towers on each side of the river, some lingering on the long stone-bridge connecting them. I had left the main road some distance before their camp and approached it from the mountains while Farkas strolled seemingly innocently along the road. Of course he was stopped soon, and while he was still discussing the handing over of the contents of his pack with three of the thugs, I was already able to take out two of them on the bridge. They never knew where the arrows that killed them came from, and even if they weren't dead with the first shot, the long fall down into the seething river certainly did the rest.

In the meantime, Farkas had decided that he was too attached to his belongings to give them away just like that. The inevitable fight developing around him wasn't as ferocious as I had feared though, his opponents obviously too astonished that this easy victim wasn't only crazy enough to challenge all of them at once, but also proved to be a rather skilled warrior. Nevertheless, I had to be careful not to hit him when I let my arrows rain down on them, but I was unreachable and well protected, so at least I could aim carefully. As soon as the remaining bandits realised that there was more than one enemy attacking them, they tried to escape into their hideout, but it was too late. I hit the last of them in the back - an honourless death for an honourless villain.

The last three members of the gang made the fatal error to retreat into the second tower. We cornered them in the uppermost floor, and with the both of us staying in the doorway to the stairs and Farkas' broad shoulders alone filling the opening nearly entirely, only one of them at a time could reach us at all. They didn't have a chance while we didn't even break a sweat.

"This was nearly too easy," Farkas said with an appreciative smile, "I must confess, your stealth skills are more useful than I thought at first."

I chuckled. "They're even more useful with a distracting meatshield."

He growled in faux anger. "Meatshield? _Meatshield?_ I'll show you meatshield, whelp!" Sprinting past me, he chased me playfully back over the bridge and down the first tower. Outside, I was able to turn and dart past him before he could grab me. He probably didn't try really hard.

"Meatshield, you're far too slow to get me!"

His roaring laughter stopped me at the entrance to the tower, and he nearly knocked me over when he ran into the chamber. To see him so exuberant brought back the memory of his terrifying state only a few days ago, and that his recovery was so much more important than anything I'd have to deal with.

He trapped me with his gauntlets resting on the wall left and right of my shoulders, his grin irresistible. "Got you!"

I ducked away under his forearms and ran. "Really? Dream on, hulk!"

He didn't follow me. "Get us some firewood, whelp. I'm hungry!"

Farkas made use of the various supplies the bandits had left behind, especially a freshly slain goat, and proved his excellent cooking skills again. After the meal we sat by the fire in a relaxed, comfortable silence, deep in our thoughts. I had volunteered for the first watch, not giving him the chance to let me sleep through the night again, and when he finally retreated into his bedroll, it was relieving to see that his rest was peaceful and undisturbed.


	12. Grey

I didn't count them all, and I lost track anyway after a few hundred and the first onslaught of a pack of wolves, but it were really 7000 steps. At least.

Farkas had fun with me mumbling numbers, nudging me, yelling false alarms or telling dirty jokes just to break my concentration. But to count the steps seemed to be the only way to deal with burning calves and the lack of breath as we circled the peak above us on the steep, narrow, icy path over and over again. It didn't seem to come any nearer for hours, and I was glad that we had allowed ourselves an extensive rest in Ivarstead and not taken the bait of the inn keeper to visit the allegedly haunted local barrow.

The snowfall became denser the nearer we came to the top, until we could barely see the next few steps. But I pressed onward, no way I would spend a night on this path with nothing but frost trolls as company. When High Hrothgar finally became visible I was frozen to the bones, but we already stood nearly in front of its entrance – if the huge, wooden double doors were any indication, the building they belonged to was really impressive.

An impression which proved to be true as soon as we entered. The huge hall wasn't any warmer than the outside, but at least we were out of the snow and the storm. Blank black stone walls, impressive stairs and a circle of old men in grey robes, silently staring at me – I didn't feel very welcome. In fact, suddenly I felt very small, and only Farkas' reassuring presence behind me made me step forward.

"Are you the one we called?"

I just nodded. The man's face was unreadable under the grey hood. No welcome, no smile, no acknowledgement, no "good to see you, Dragonborn, have a drink." After 7000 steps! I wasn't so certain any more that this journey was worth the effort.

"Prove it." He pointed to a symbol, shimmering in the polished surface of the black stone floor.

If they didn't want to be polite, I could do without as well. _They_ had summoned_ me_, I had taken on an entirely unwanted journey to follow their call, and I'd rather return to Whiterun sooner than later. I let the force build up in my throat until it hummed through my whole body, but when it erupted, I somehow failed to target the symbol exactly. One of the robed figures flew backwards against the stairs. After all, I was weary from the walk and not very practised. Farkas behind me couldn't suppress an amused snort, but somehow this audacity seemed to break the ice. The man didn't smile openly, but at least he didn't shout back.

"Welcome to High Hrothgar, Dragonborn." Finally. "I am Master Arngeir. It seems you're tired – we sometimes forget how exhausting the journey up here is. We don't get many visitors." Why wasn't I surprised?

I didn't know if anyone beside these four men lived in the complex, but the chamber Arngeir led us to was warmed by a crackling fire, and a meal waited for us – for both of us, as if they had expected that I wouldn't come alone. We were left alone for the rest of the evening, and I was glad to have Farkas by my side, although he obviously felt at least as uncomfortable as me.

"Why do these sages with their ancient wisdom always have to live in such inhospitable places?" he muttered while popping an ale and filling our tankards. "No fun, no women, no music, and these," he raised the bottle, "are probably only for guests." He became earnest.

"I don't like this place, Qhouri. It's too quiet. Like a tomb, but I'm not allowed to draw my blade although I can feel that something powerful lurks in the dark. Promise to be careful when you deal with these guys, okay?"

I was here to learn, no to fight. And if there was danger ahead, probably not even Farkas could protect me.

The Greybeards didn't carry their name by chance. Everything in High Hrothgar was grey – the building itself, the surroundings, the weather, its resident's robes, hair and skin, and even the voice of Arngeir sounded as if it was muffled by dense, grey fog. And it wasn't just grey – it was the absolute absence of colours that was so deeply disturbing. Down in the valley we had enjoyed the deep, luminous colours of fall, but up here endless winter ruled, where nothing ever grew and everything seemed as lifeless as the dark stone around us.

Nothing that could distract from the knowledge held and taught in this temple of ancient wisdom.

Breakfast was sparse, and after it we gathered again in the huge main hall. Farkas joined me, but lingered in the shadows, just watching… I didn't know if out of curiosity of because he thought I'd need his protection. Again, it was Arngeir who addressed me.

"Dragonborn. It's an honour to welcome you in High Hrothgar, where we have sought to guide those of the Dragon Blood who came before you. We will do our best to teach you how to use your gift in fulfilment of your destiny."

"My destiny? What is my destiny? Does it have something to do with the return of the dragons?"

He nodded. That was what I had feared most. "Probably, yes. Even we don't know for sure, but the appearance of a Dragonborn at this time is certainly more than a coincidence. But we can only show you the path… you will have to uncover the destination for yourself."

My destiny. The last months – no, actually all my life I had been pushed around by forces I could not control, from the bandits who ransacked the farm of my parents and destroyed my family up to the dragon attacking Whiterun. I had always been used, and it was high time I started to shape my own life. My own destiny. The first step had been to join the Companions. Now there was something new again, something that had descended upon me like an avalanche. But I wouldn't allow that this so-called destiny would push me around. I would learn to control the powers I had, and I didn't care for the moment if they were a gift or a curse. I also didn't want to ask that pointless "Why me?" question any more – I wouldn't get an answer anyway. If the gods had such a queer sense of humour to make someone like me a Dragonborn, I'd make sure to deliver them a good game.

The training was hard. Arngeir was the only one who talked to me, but all of the Greybeards shared their powers and their knowledge. The problem wasn't so much to _learn_ new words, that was obviously my inborn ability, but to channel the new understanding into reality. I needed the power of the dragons to do so, and there was so much possible with those Words of Power, I had no idea. While I could attack with pure force, fire and ice, I could also move with incredible speed, soothe animals, weaken my enemies or protect myself. Or at least, some day I would hopefully be able to – for now, I only practised the most basic words until the power of the Thu'um made my body tremble with exhaustion and my lungs and throat burned from the focused, powerful breaths. My teachers were relentless, but they also showed a great deal of patience.

The hours I spent in the company of the silent elders were rewarded with a tranquillity I had never known before. Concentrated on my exercises, their gestures and light touches got a clarity which exceeded every spoken word. The training and the permanent physical exhaustion coming with it, long conversations with Arngeir and hours of silent meditations which left me stiff and chilled to the bone but cleared my head from the overwhelming amount of knowledge – the days passed like a dream.

And with every passing day my willingness to face this new life, this new challenge grew as well. Not only did I finally experience that I had the power to do so; it wasn't pure luck any more when I did something and survived. With every hour I spent with Arngeir and learned about the history of the dragons and Dragonborns before me, I also learned to accept the fact that it was my very own duty. If I refused to deal with the newly rising danger, nobody would.

But despite all the submersion and contemplation every day had to end, and every evening when I retreated to our shared chamber I had to deal with Farkas' growing restlessness. He didn't complain, never even said a word, but I saw in him that our stay here strained his nerves to the edge. I knew the Greybeards let him stroll freely through High Hrothgar, but what could a man like him find here to keep him occupied? Sometimes I thought of him like of a little boy who needed to be kept busy, but that was unjust. This was simply not his world, and he didn't share the experiences I made.

But it was more than just boredom, and I realised it nearly too late. The deep, undisturbed silence that I had learned to appreciate so much, this silence frightened him to death. He wasn't used to be all on his own, and he feared the whole atmosphere of this place which left him nothing to do than to deal with himself. He wasn't ready for it. He had come as my guardian, as my support, but what had become a refuge to me was more like a prison to him. When he felt he wasn't needed – at least for the moment – he backed out.

At first he made long hikes along the mountainside, hunted deer and goats, even patrolled the path to keep the few pilgrims safe who wandered the way and meditated over the inscriptions. But it wasn't enough, and one evening I found a short scribbled note on my pillow.

_"Off to Ivarstead, I need some company. Will be back in a few days. Farkas"_

The small sentiment of hurt that he didn't bother to tell me about his plans personally dissipated soon. He was right, and I was glad he didn't press me to leave just because he felt uncomfortable.

It took four days until I started to worry. After six days, the serenity of High Hrothgar left me entirely. I was unconcentrated, my throat so constricted I didn't manage a single Shout to the standards I had worked so hard for. With a frustrated shrug I left the back yard where I had trained with Master Borri, my thoughts with Farkas instead on the Word I practised. I knew something was wrong. He was gone for exactly one week when I woke with the image of golden eyes in my mind. Arngeir just nodded when he saw me enter the main hall, armed and armoured, wrapped in my cloak and ready to leave.

"I will come back, I promise."

High Hrothgar would never be my home. It could be a safe haven for a limited time, but my home was Jorrvaskr, the Companions my family. When Farkas needed help, even when I only assumed that he needed my help, everything else had to stay behind.

It didn't take long to find him, the bright red patch shining from afar in the blinding white snow. The sabrecats had attacked him from behind, damned sneaky critters, but nevertheless their huge corpses lay some distance below him, shred to pieces I knew only one kind of creature could cause. Farkas lay in the snow, unconscious, his armour nearly destroyed, bleeding from many wounds but alive. Arngeir didn't ask when I rushed back into the hall, he just helped. And he also didn't mind to turn High Hrothgar into a hospital for the time being, brought potions and a substantial chicken broth.

I was asleep in a chair when Farkas finally opened his eyes again, but the light pressure of his fingers let me startle. A feeble smile had replaced the clenched teeth caused by the pain every breath and every move obviously caused him.

"Another life I owe you, sister. Next time it's my turn again, okay?"

I was so relieved to see him awake that I could only give him a beaming smile.

His expression turned into his typical grin. "I've brought you something. Something pretty!" He chuckled. "Have you already looked through my pack?" I had, but only for any leftover potions. "There's a small package, wrapped in a cloth. It's for you."

It was a claw similar to the one Athis and I had "found" in Bleak Falls Barrow, just that its talons were of a bright blue instead of gold. He obviously didn't expect it when I punched him in the chest, not caring for his injuries. His breath became a pained gasp.

"You've been in the damned tomb!" I yelled at him, "are you crazy? Did Kodlak teach you nothing? You foolish, stubborn icebrain, you could be dead!"

His hand reached for my cheek, wiping away the tears of anger and relief, but he also seemed a bit confused about my outbreak.

"Hey… nothing happened, at least not in the barrow! I just did the people down there a small favour. And it was only one guy, not even a real ghost – I didn't get in very far anyway, couldn't open one of those silly puzzle doors. Wilhelm gave me the claw as a reward. And it _is_ pretty, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is, but if my guess is right it's also the key to that silly door that fortunately stopped you. And perhaps there's another word wall behind it like in Bleak Falls Barrow. We will have to check that out – when you're on your feet again, and _together_!"

I wasn't finished with him. "Never, _never_ again dare to scare me like that, do you hear me? Do you have any idea how terrifying it is to dream of you and wake up with the knowledge that something horrible has happened?"

His eyes darkened with distress and he leant back, withdrawing his hand and his whole self from the contact.

"Yes. Yes, I know how that feels, Qhouri," he muttered lowly. "Believe me. I don't know much, but this… I've spent so long with nothing but your eyes keeping me linked to this world, it's just fair that you see mine now from time to time."

The silence between us grew into infinity. But these were things that had to be expressed, even if it got to his core. He had to rip this scar open to let it heal properly. When I laid my hand on his, lying limply on the blanket, he turned his wrist and clenched my fingers.

His voice was weak and small.

"I was lost… and I didn't even know it. There was only emptiness, darkness and hunger. Nothing else… not even the feeling that something was wrong. I could have stayed there forever, in that void, if it hadn't been for the dreams."

"Dreams? You still dreamt?"

"Yes. Did you know that when the wolf is in control… when nothing is left to keep him in check, he dreams as well? I know them, we all know them, these dreams of the hunt and the kill and the frenzy. They're dangerous, but then… it was different. In these dreams I _knew_ that I was lost. That I had lost something, and that I couldn't return. And I only knew it because your face was still there."

He stared at me from wide open eyes full of hurt, as if he relived it. This revelation was horrible, and I turned my head away, avoiding his gaze. But his index touched my chin and lifted my face to his.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, "if I had known…"

He shook his head. "Don't be. I never felt so alone. It was all that was left… but I didn't want to lose it. I fought for it, it was… like an anchor. But when the pack overwhelmed me and Farengar put that spell on me… it didn't feel like returning. It was like being pushed into another abyss. Suddenly I knew what was wrong, but knowing alone wasn't enough, and the beast was so much stronger than me. Yes, there were Vilkas and Kodlak and the others. They _showed_ me where to go. But without your smell and your eyes, without you being there I would have never _believed_."

He leant back against the pillow, his voice that was usually so resounding only a barely audible whisper.

"I owe you so much more than just my life, Qhouri. Nothing is certain any more, nothing can be taken for granted, but this is something I still trust. You will have to send me to Oblivion to get rid of me. Though I would probably go if you told me."

This huge gruff man looked at me with the eyes of a child, full of faith and trust.

I bit my lip. "I won't send you anywhere, Farkas. But… I don't know what will happen. What's waiting for me. I'll have to deal with those dragons…"

It was frightening to say it out loud. Of course I would need help with this. But… whatever I'd have to do, it wasn't the Companion's business, and I didn't want him to feel obliged.

But there was no hesitation in him, no doubt, only certainty and determination "Whatever it is… let me have your back, sister. It's the least I can do." He saw through me, that I shied away from his offer, from the commitment that came with it. His hand reached out, touching my wrist lightly, and a small smile flickered over his face. "We're a good team."

"You think so? Or do you just wanna slay more dragons?" I gave him a weak grin.

"Both. I won't press you, Qhouri. But I want you to know that I'll be there when you need me."

I lifted my head, looked up into his face. His eyes were bright, clear and calm. He had made a decision, for himself and perhaps for me as well, and somehow I felt safe. Somehow I knew that this promise would hold.

* * *

"What's that grin for? You're not laughing about me again, are you?"

"Of course not, brother. Never!" I couldn't withhold a giggle. The spikes that had been crashing out of the ground in front of the trapped chest had nearly pierced his kneecaps although I had pointed out the thin wire that tied the trigger to the lid.

We were back in normality, and we were both glad about it. People could only endure so much emotional strain without going crazy or – worse – becoming awkward with each other. Nothing was awkward between us, fortunately, and the temporary parting from High Hrothgar had been on good terms as well. I knew I could come back whenever I felt the necessity, and I also left with an assignment – a trial – which gave me the good feeling that I'd perhaps be able to repay what the Greybeards had done for me: to retrieve the horn of Jurgen Windcaller, their founder, from his grave.

And now the crawl through the dark passages of Shroud Hearth Barrow and hacking through half-rotten undead felt so incredible routine in comparison to the things we both had been through, it was outright relaxing. Obviously too relaxing and boring for my shield-brother, I was nearly convinced he triggered all the traps on purpose just to amuse me. Although I could have killed him when he released the mechanism of the rotating doors when I was just between the first and the second. It had taken me ages to stop them all three with the opening just large enough for us to squeeze through. His hysterical giggle from behind the massive stone wall didn't make it any better – as didn't mine when it took him even longer to find the correct position of the levers again.

Only when we reached the final room, the laughter suddenly died in my throat. Thirteen coffins, of course all of them opening at once, and behind them the word wall we had come for, tugging at my conscience. I gestured to Farkas to stay back and quiet, and for once he obeyed – with the result that the heavy gate closed between him and me. With me inside and him out. I had a problem.

Fortunately the inhabitants of the anterior coffins were mere skeletons, easy to kill but also inconveniently noisy when they collapsed into piles of bones. The draugr hadn't localised me yet, hiding in the shadows behind an enormous column, but with several skulls suddenly rolling around they became curious and moved towards the gate. Where Farkas suddenly appeared, just to kick up a riot that must have been audible up in Ivarstead. He clenched to the bars and yelled abuses at the draugr I'd preferred not to have added to my vocabulary, but it was hilarious to see them pile up before the gate, sticking their bony limbs through it and Farkas raging just out of their reach, hacking at their swords, axes and arms when he got the opportunity.

I had crawled behind one of the now empty coffins for cover and took them out from behind. Another lesson learned: draugr focused on a single enemy weren't easily distracted as long as this enemy was still alive and kicking. Not even by bodies going limp beside, behind and in front of them. They were _really_ dumb. I only had to confront one of them personally, their master, the strongest of them all. The way he got rid of of his unreachable enemy left me speechless for a second – a barked "FUS" crashed Farkas against the wall behind him. When the bright blue glowing eyes turned to me, I shouted back. And the gate opened.

Farkas was already on his feet again when I rushed over. "That was awesome!" he grinned, rubbing the back of his head.

"Yes, it was, but you know…" I pointed at the quiver on his back, "instead of only yelling vulgarities, you could have just used your bow and not let me do all the work, _meatshield_. Leave the shouting to me, okay?"

His puppy eyes were irresistible. "Oh, but this was so much more fun!" he sulked. "It's so rare I can use all these funny words I learned in the Bannered Mare! Aela always slaps me when I try them out."

I had nearly forgotten about the wall. When I approached it, it was different than the first times. Much more controlled, much more conscious. I felt the word drown into my brain, but it didn't overwhelm me any more. It was "KAAN", the dragon word for Kyne.

* * *

The hall was bustling with life, I had a mug of hot ale in one hand, the other busy with the fresh venison roast on my platter, around me nothing but familiar and friendly faces – we were home again, and we were happy to enjoy the safety of Jorrvaskr and to relax for this one evening, although everybody was aware that we were only passing through.

If I really thought that the Companions didn't want to get involved in the Dragonborn business, I couldn't have been more wrong. Yes, they got paid when they did a job, but their true interests were much different from those of ordinary mercenaries. They fought for honour and glory, and as Farkas had expressed it: "I fight for those who can't fight for themselves." They were warriors first and foremost, they lived for battle, the fiercer the better, and what could be more glorious than a battle against dragons, the oldest fiend of mankind?

They acted as if the Dovahkiin of legends could righteously only be a Companion as well. They wanted to take part in this epic battle, every single one of them. No way I could have talked them out of it, and anyway – I didn't want to. The Greybeards had taught me what it meant to be Dragonborn and what the rising of the Dov meant for Skyrim. But I still didn't know what exactly I would have to do. I couldn't slay every single dragon on my own. To have a whole bunch of people around me speculating and spinning plans for the heroic deeds they would perform with me felt nothing less than comfortable.

"So, what are your next steps?" Aela looked curiously from Farkas to me.

"Apart from killing as many dragons as possible, gather their souls for Qhouri and their scales and bones for Eorlund?" Farkas leant so relaxed in his chair as if he slew dragons every day before breakfast. Just for fun.

"Don't brag, brother," I chuckled. "Let's see what happens when we meet the first one just the two of us, without an army in the back. You have just proven that you've neglected your archery skills rather recklessly."

"Oh!" his eyes sparkled, "I wanna try if what works with the draugr also works with dragons! They do understand us, don't they? They don't speak only their own language?"

My irritated sigh was only met with laughter. The idea of Farkas yelling expletives at a dragon was as ridiculous as improbable. Especially as the beast would probably answer him with a shout of fire.

"We have to go to Ustengrav and retrieve the Horn of Jurgen Windcaller, the founder of the Greybeards. Not sure what they need it for all of a sudden, but they will have their reasons."

Skjor spread out a huge map of Skyrim in the middle of the table, searching for the location in the jumble of marks, symbols and remarks.

"Ustengrav, hm? That's here, in the northern swamps, between Morthal and Solitude. You're gonna take the carriage to Morthal and go from there?"

"No, not Morthal. Solitude, that way we can avoid the swamps nearly entirely." Farkas' smile had drained away for an uneasy growl, his lips pursed to a firm line. I was surprised, we hadn't mad any plans yet.

"But Morthal is much nearer, Solitude would be a huge detour! What's the matter, are you afraid of swamp wisps?"

"No, I'm not!" he flared up, every humour vanished from his voice. Vilkas, who had been mostly quiet so far, chimed in. "Morthal is only a hamlet, Qhourian. Just an inn," the telling glance he sent to his brother didn't escape me, "a mill and a crazy Jarl whose job is so stressless that she has time to have visions and drive her people crazy. You won't get any supplies there, nor any advice how to get to the barrow safest and quickest. I'd say, travel to Solitude and make your way from there."

He had a point, I was sure however that something was seriously wrong here. But now I didn't want to stress the relaxed atmosphere any further. This was our well deserved break, and I was dead set to enjoy it. We would need our strength on our further way, wherever it would lead us.

Solitude could have been a beautiful city if it hadn't been for all the soldiers. They were everywhere, gathering in the inn, the shops and the streets, evoking an atmosphere of fear and distrust. This was the headquarter of the Imperial legion in Skyrim and one of the epicentres of the civil war against the Stormcloaks, and the hatred I saw in so many words and eyes of the citizens against their fellow Nords left a foul taste in my mouth even the fresh breeze from the sea couldn't dispel. Even the famous bard's college was affected by it, seeing that their yearly festival had been cancelled because of the murder of High King Torygg. It was heartbreaking, and we were happy to leave that miserable place after buying a map, some food and as many potions as we could carry.

I hadn't argued the question of our travel route any further - if Farkas didn't want to go to Morthal, we would avoid it. Concerning the why – he was my shield-brother, but he also had the right to keep his secrets. If he wanted to tell me, he would.

When we approached the barrow, we found a camp – again. Camps at the entrances to these places were bad, that much I had learned already, and we weren't sure if the corpses of the outlaws laying around were a good or a bad omen. At least it weren't Silver Hands. But it could also mean that the werewolf hunters were waiting inside. Farkas shrugged and pushed the door open.

But it weren't Silver Hands. He froze the moment I had closed the doors and he had made the first steps into the darkness, turning his head and sniffing, drawing his sword with narrowed brows.

"Necros," he whispered under his breath.

Now I heard it as well, the distinct sounds of magic users fighting, the sizzling of lightning, shouting and screaming, the air sated with the iron tang of magic.

Farkas tensed as I gave him a concerned look, laying a hand on his shoulder. Not that I could have held him back if he ran off in a frenzy.

But he bared his teeth in a feral grin. "I'll be fine. Don't worry."

I gestured him to stay back and let me sneak ahead to find out who was fighting whom, but we got our answer without moving on – an outlaw like those we had found outside came dashing around the corner of the corridor, screaming, with frenzied panic in his eyes and stumbling steps, and behind him... a wolf. It looked like a wolf, somehow, or it would have if it hadn't been... ethereal. A gigantic beast consisting only of something that looked like mist, incorporeal and irreal.

But the bandit stopped dead when he saw us standing at the exit he had made for, weapons drawn. And in the same moment the creature proved that it wasn't incorporeal at all, its weight hurling the man to the ground when it crushed into his back and crunched his neck with a sickening sound.

The wolf stood above the corpse with bared flews, watching us, ready for the next victim. While I still tried to swallow the lump in my throat and nocked an arrow, Farkas already charged, disturbingly silent and efficient. He held his sword high and brought it down onto the beast's neck. When the _thing_ crumpled into a small heap of glowing dust, he turned to me, disgust in his face.

"Let them kill each other," he whispered, "we'll take on the rest."

The rest, that were only two mages in the familiar dirty black robes, bent over the corpse of a heavily armed man. One of them died with an arrow in his back, the other with Farkas' sword in his guts. After this first encounter, there weren't any more of them deeper in the tomb – both groups had probably only looked for a secure refuge and come into each other's way.

The rest of barrow was just more of what we were used to, lots of draugr and even more traps. It was beautiful though, in its own way – not quite as dark and tight as some of the other tombs I had visited, but the halls and caves much larger and the corridors much better lit. We crossed several large caverns that even contained some upperworld vegetation, crippled trees and bushes where bright rays of daylight beaming in from above.

It was in one of those cave halls we had to cross over a small stonen ledge when Farkas found out about one of my biggest weaknesses. The dripping of water in the huge room and the way our steps echoed around us made me nervous from the start, and I eyed the narrow bridge with suspicion. It left us entirely uncovered, but that wasn't the worst. Panic hit me only after a few steps when I felt the pebbles beneath my feet drop down into the depth but didn't hear them reach the bottom. I dropped to my knees, eyes tightly shut, cold sweat pouring down my spine.

_Vertigo._ It had never been that bad before.

Farkas stopped behind me, unable to pass on the small ledge, and I thought I felt the stone shiver under his weight. He realised at once what was happening and knelt beside me. His hands on my shoulders restored my ability to breathe, but I didn't dare to open my eyes.

"Calm down, Qhouri," he said quietly, his touch never leaving me, "I need to get on your other side, I will climb over you. Don't be afraid, I'm here, but don't move." His movements were slow, as if he didn't want to scare me any further. Panic coiled in my stomach and paralysed my limbs, my head swam even behind closed lids. I knew, when I opened them I would look directly into the chasm.

Farkas nestled at my belt, then I felt something slung around my waist and secured safely – a rope. I didn't even know he had one in his pack. The gods bless his foresight and experience.

"I've tied us together. Now you can't fall any more." The confidence in his voice was much more important than his words. "You have to move now, Qhouri. I'm here, I'll guide you. You can't fall. You don't have to open your eyes, just follow me." I felt him close, I could clench the cool metal of his gauntlet when he made the first step, a reassuring presence I didn't want to lose. It took an eternity, but step after step we made it until the light breeze from below suddenly stopped and the sound of our steps became different, more solid. My knees turned to jelly when I finally touched the wall, but Farkas' grip was firm. He led me further into a small room where I dropped against a broken table.

When I was able to see clearly again, I felt only embarrassment. Farkas sat hunched against a wall across from me, carefully observing my state and smiling when he saw my cheeks flush.

"How did you make it up to High Hrothgar with that… condition? That path was at least as narrow as this one, and it was much higher." I didn't know. I knew I suffered vertigo from time to time, but it had never been so extreme. Perhaps it was the knowledge that this time there was nothing but nothingness beneath my feet instead of a solid mountain.

"Thank you, Farkas, that would have been a miserable death without you. Won't happen again!"

"Don't make promises you can't keep, sister. Next time, we will be prepared. I knew that rope would come in handy some day!"

The rest of the tomb was routine. Lots of traps most of which I could trigger from afar before Farkas had the chance to step into them, and another word wall. They were either indeed scattered all over Tamriel, or we had been extremely lucky in our dungeon choices. The draugr population seemed strangely sparse though, many coffins broken but abandoned with their residents nowhere to be found.

The centre of the barrow was impressive, with four gigantic stonen dragonheads emerging from a huge pool when we approached, but it was also empty. No enemies, and most of all, no horn. Instead, I found a note on the pedestal where it should have been.

_Dragonborn – I need to speak to you. Urgently._  
_Rent the attic room at the Sleeping Giant Inn in Riverwood, and I'll meet you._  
_- A friend_

This was a joke, wasn't it? What's this gonna be, a scavenger hunt?

More than frustrated after this wasted effort and more than angry about the nameless thief we crawled out of the barrow. And of course it had to be in the middle of the night when we left. I hated to camp near these old tombs, but with a night as pitch black and foggy as this, we didn't have much choice. Even though we tried to find a place a bit higher and dryer than the entrance to the barrow, the cold dampness of the swamp and the humid air soaked through marrow and bone. We both needed a fire to keep us warm, even if we didn't know what lurked in the marshes. But we would keep watch anyway.

The dragon came upon us shortly before dawn, when the night was darkest. Farkas, sitting at the lowly smouldering fire only had a few moments to alert me and get prepared himself before the beast already clawed at him, letting out the typical roar. I didn't see anything. There were no moons or stars the dragon could have blacked out, and the fog had become even denser. We had to deal with a deadly enemy which could come from every direction including above, and which we couldn't see. Quickly Farkas drenched the fire completely to not give the dragon an additional advantage, but I supposed his senses were much sharper than ours, or at least than mine – he certainly didn't need that lead to find us. On the other hand, our only clue was the heavy flapping of his wings, which we only heard when he was already far too close. Our only chance would be to force him to land as soon as possible.

"Stay behind me as long as he's above us," I yelled. "I will try to shout him down, don't wanna hit you!"

I needed to concentrate, but it was hard while crouching in the mud, listening for the muffled sound of the wings. Twice I missed him directly above our heads, but he missed us as well. It wasn't the same kind of dragon we had encountered at Whiterun - this one spit ice instead of fire. At least we didn't have to deal with smoke to obscure our view even more. The last cover was lost when he carried away our little tent, I heard the claws rip through the sturdy leather and shivered at the thought of them catching one of us.

With the third try, I got him. The force that hit him wasn't as powerful as it could have been, but at least it stopped his endless circling. He started to hover above us, and finally we could use our bows and try to hurt him, though we had to be fast to avoid his relentless ice jets. Soon the mud surrounding our makeshift camp was deeply frozen, making every movement even more slippery and dangerous. We desperately needed a lucky shot to force him to land, and I finally got it – my arrow pierced through the thin skin of the wings right into the joint of that body part that was probably the draconian equivalent to a shoulder. His shriek was earshattering, but still drowned out by Farkas' roar of triumph.

Once bound to earth, the dragon wasn't half as fast any more. His fangs, frost shouts and the long, spiked tail were still dangerous weapons, but now it was much easier to avoid them, as long as we kept our distance. The downside was that as long as we kept our distance we simply couldn't hurt him seriously enough, with his vulnerable belly unreachable and his throat constantly twitching from left to right. I already felt myself stagger from exhaustion, and Farkas wasn't better off - if this took much longer, our dance around the dragon would soon have a single winner, and he wouldn't be human.

Not sure if it was an act of heroic megalomania or just a temporary attack of madness, but suddenly Farkas threw away his bow, drew his sword and charged in, yelling from the top of his lungs.

"Hey! … HEY, you filthy lizard! Wanna play seriously, you pathetic heap of scales? Or do you choke on your own breath? Gods, what did Akatosh think when he made a crap-eating ugly worm like _you_?"

I groaned loudly, not really believing what I just heard. This man was insane, I had always known it.

Farkas stayed under the long swinging neck, following his movements and holding his blade up above his own impressive height. As soon as the dragon would lower his throat, he would impale himself on the steelen tip. He would also crush his attacker, but that thought I better blocked out.

The situation was ridiculous, especially as the fight was suddenly deadlocked, but I had to act soon, a single false step on Farkas' side and he would be dead. When the creature stood still for a short moment and tried to snap at the man below it, I ran and jumped, used one of his bended legs as a ladder and landed on his back. The scaly spikes along his spine provided a reasonably good hold, but as my only weapon was my trusted Skyforge mace which would never be able to pierce his scales and hurt anything vital, I would have to crush his skull to bring him down. Easier said than done with the long, muscular neck twitching from side to side, the whole body bucking and trying to cast me off while I hammered away with every bit of force I could muster.

The shriek he let out when skull and spine finally shattered at the joint to his neck had nothing of an intelligent being any more – it was pure pain, bestial and ferocious. But with his last breath, he also reared up his whole body until he towered above Farkas, and with a final frantic jerk he managed to cast me off. Everything went black.


	13. Morthal

Even when I opened my eyes everything stayed black, and I couldn't breathe. It took a moment of blinding panic to realise that I lay flat and face down in the icy mud. To turn around was a foolish idea though, the pressure on shoulder and ribs sending a jolt of pain seething like fire through my body - some parts of me were apparently seriously hurt, again. From the corner of my eyes I saw the corpse of the dragon, his neck strangely twisted, his jaws wide open. But the mist around us had lightened up a bit, and it seemed that we lived to see another morning.

A loud, impatient curse coming from the other side of the beast startled me. Farkas sat there, leaning against a rock and holding his ankle, his face contorted with pain. It changed into a contorted grin when he saw me move.

"Told you it would work!" The unmistakable pride in his voice made me realise what had happened. We had killed a dragon, just the two of us. It was really possible. Incredible, but possible.

But I had forgotten what would happen when I struggled to my feet with a pained groan and approached the corpse, and for the first time I experienced it on top of my senses and sober. It lit up and simply evaporated, matter turning into rays of pure energy, leaving only the skeleton behind. I became a vessel, strangely eager to be filled by this mysterious force that was a living spirit and a personality and most of all _power_ so ancient and alien that it was completely beyond my grasp. And still it was mine, I was entitled to it and claimed it as my own, and I could feel how it settled in, not frightening in itself, but so incredibly strange.

To take the soul of a dragon was much less exhausting than to learn a new Word from one of the walls. The whole process didn't change me, didn't make me someone else, but it added something to my own human self. Something I would have to get used to, and it would take some time to absorb it entirely.

Together with the tent, the dragon had carried away one of our packs - the one with the majority of our potions. Impossible to go and search for it. When I dropped down beside Farkas, we inspected our injuries more thoroughly - my shoulder hurt terribly, and I had probably broken a rib or two, but at least I could walk. My shield-brother though had either broken or severely sprained his ankle, we didn't dare to remove his boot and have a closer look, and blood dropped from a deep cut in his left thigh. He winced in pain when he tried to stand up. In our condition, we didn't have much choice.

"Morthal?"

He sighed deeply. "Yes, Morthal."

We were a miserable couple when we finally reached the small village. It had taken us the whole day with lots of breaks, Farkas only able to walk with the help of a crude stick, me carrying our remaining supplies, wincing every time when the burden strained my injured shoulder. But when I turned towards the inn, Farkas held me back.

"Wait… perhaps we should visit the Jarl first and tell her about the dragon attack. I suppose she wants to know, after all it happened not so far away."

I shot him a suspicious glance. He couldn't stand straight any more, we needed nothing more than a rest, some healing potions and a meal, but he wanted to fulfil his duties as a citizen first? I dropped myself and my pack on the railing of the narrow stone-bridge leading into the village. A passing guard eyed us curiously, and I saw a bunch of children lingering in the distance. Now I really wanted to know what it was that agitated him so much.

"Farkas, I'm aware that you just argued a dragon to death, but this won't work with me, so don't even try. What's so frightening about this inn that you don't even dare to enter it?"

His expression became harried as he sat down beside me. "The keeper."

"What does that mean, you're afraid of the innkeeper?"

"Well, not exactly afraid. But… I don't want to meet her. And when she realises that you're here with me, she won't help you either! I'm sorry…"

"And why not? We'd _pay_ for her services, for Kyne's sake!"

"She doesn't like me." He looked so contrite, his look pleading not to ask further that I didn't insist. But I decided that I didn't like this woman at all. Farkas was clearly one of the nicest, friendliest and most amenable men I had ever met. We didn't even want to beg for help, only buy a meal and perhaps some potions and rent a room. I couldn't believe that whatever had happened between them could be so serious to deny him such an ordinary deal.

But all this mess didn't change the fact that we needed supplies and a place to recover, at least for a couple of days. Morthal was too small to be connected to the regular carriage routes, so we couldn't just go somewhere else. Perhaps the idea to visit the Jarl and hope for her gratitude wasn't that bad at all.

"You dare to come here? After all you've done? Give me one reason not to kill you right here and now!"

No, it was a bad idea. Perhaps we should have just crawled back to Solitude. Apparently not only the host of the inn, but also the Jarl's court mage wanted to murder him on the spot, and I wasn't sure if I found this reaction to his presence alarming, annoying or amusing.

The Redguard standing beside the throne of the Jarl didn't look that intimidating per se, with his slender build and his dirty robe. But the bright sparks in his palms and the deadly glances he shot at Farkas proved a wrath he was barely able to control.

The elderly woman on the wooden throne looked more curious than concerned, though.

"Calm down, Falion. What's going on here?"

"That bastard, he has …"

But Farkas cut in curtly, straightening his stance with a groan.

"Jarl Idgrod, it's an honour to meet you. I'm Farkas, member of the Companions in Whiterun, and this is my shield-sister Qhourian. We hereby report that a dragon threatened your town. We killed it only a few miles north of here."

The Jarl showed admirable composure.

"A dragon, hm? Yes, we've seen a dragon nearby recently, it even catched some goats. No people so far, fortunately. You say it's dead? Killed by just the two of you? Certainly there are some remains to prove your claim?"

"Of course there are. As I said, you will find his skeleton only a few miles north of here, near the barrow of Ustengrav."

The Redguard looked as if he wanted to explode.

"My Jarl, a skeleton? Why are there only some bones left when they killed it only a few hours ago? Let me deal with this bastard, he's not worth your attention!"

"Falion, please. I don't know what's going on between you and our _guest_, but if there's a dragon skeleton lying around somewhere in my hold, it certainly hasn't been there yesterday, or_ I would know about it_. Don't be silly."

She turned to us.

"Farkas, please explain. Why is there only a skeleton? Don't think I'm not grateful, but I think I should know about such strange things happening in my hold."

He looked very weary suddenly, and he avoided my eyes when he pointed at me.

"Because she's the Dragonborn. She absorbed his soul. It's hard to believe if you've not seen it for yourself, but… there's not much left after it."

Farkas faltered, his face ashen from the pain and the long standing. The Jarl finally reacted. "Please, sit down. I'm sorry I didn't recognise the severity of your injuries earlier.

"Aslfur!" she shouted into one of the back rooms, "please prepare one of the guest quarters, and we also need a meal for these two, and fast!"

She turned to the mage. "And you get some potions from Lami or bring your own. No, I don't want to hear a word! These warriors have done us a great service, all of us, and they deserve our gratitude. They're injured, they need healing, and we will provide what help we can." She frowned. "Or do you want me to go myself?"

The man stormed out of the hall, his eyes shooting poisoned daggers, and with a sigh of relief we seated ourselves at the large table in the middle of the hall. Jarl Idgrod took place across from us.

"Okay. Do you mind staying as my guests?" Farkas just shook his head. He looked relieved.

She pinched the bridge of her nose, staring intently at us. I had the feeling that she was satisfied that we had appeared in her hall… and curious.

"This morning, I had the feeling that something was gonna happen today," she said thoughtfully. "And now… a dragon killed, a Companion _and _the Dragonborn visiting my court, and my court mage starting a riot because of you. What is going on here?"

Never before had I seen my shield-brother so uncomfortable and embarrassed, especially as my eyes were at least as inquisitive as those of the Jarl.

"It's… it's nothing personal. At least not between Falion and me." He hesitated.

Idgrod stared at him for an endless moment, then her eyes grew wide. "No! It's _you?_" she gasped, her bewildered face changing all of a sudden into a broad, not unfriendly smirk. It seemed she knew more than me, or that she had at least an educated guess. She leant back and crossed her arms over her chest, a smug grin on her lips.

"Farkas, do you accidentally have a twin?"

"Yes, I have. A brother." He looked definitely caught. And resigned. What in Oblivion was wrong with Vilkas?

Her cordial laughter sounded through the hall. My confusion still grew, although I didn't think that was even possible. Would they please stop this little game? "Farkas, would you please finally tell me …"

Idgrod chimed in. "Let him, if he hasn't told you till today, he certainly doesn't want to now. Not sure why, but… how long do you travel with this guy already, Qhourian?"

"A few months. And he's the best companion and shield-brother I ever had!" I added stubbornly. It was more weeks than months and I didn't have much comparison... but she didn't have to know that.

"Oh, pretty sure he is. He must have _some_ qualities." Her smirk grew even wider while Farkas seemed to shrink under her glance. Somehow I liked this woman, especially when she leant over to me, ignoring him for the moment.

"Qhourian, this man's past holds a secret. Not a very dark secret - in fact, it's quite pretty -, and not a very well hidden secret, but a secret nevertheless. But now that you're here it will probably be revealed anyway, so let's see if my guess is right."

Farkas just hid his face in his palms.

"You know, Falion the hot-headed mage has a sister, Jonna, she's the keeper of our Moorside Inn. Her brother is very protective of her, but it seems that once he hasn't been attentive enough. I believe your Farkas here is the father of Jonna's little girls."

This was... as the meaning of Idgrod's assumption dropped in, my confusion suddenly resolved into terrible comprehension. Everything became very clear, all his weird behaviour, his refusal to come here, his anxiety, these awkward excuses.

Why did they all stare at _me_ now? The Jarl only showed an amused smile, but Farkas looked as if he expected me to shout him to shreds right away.

Which was exactly what I wanted to do, disappointment and aversion clenching my chest. I turned stiffly to him, lips pressed into a thin line.

"Is that true? You have children here? Daughters? And that's why you didn't want to come here?"

He groaned, but he nodded in confirmation. Cold sweat formed on my temples.

"I'm sorry, Qhouri. I should have told you."

I clenched my teeth. "You should have told _me_?" I growled, "are you serious? You have kids and deny them, you prefer to hunt dragons instead to be here and care for them, and all you have to say is that you should have told _me_? You bastard!"

He stared at me from wide open, aghast eyes. "It's not like that..." he mumbled, but I interrupted him.

"It's not like that?" I yelled, "you dare to? It's always like that, you fuck around and we can deal with the outcome! And I wondered why she doesn't _like_ you, when it was you who abandoned her! Honourable Companion my ass, as long as you can stick your dick into someone you don't care a shit!"

I jumped up and paced through the hall although every single muscle protested, not looking at him. I couldn't bear to look into this face that I had thought I knew in the meantime, that was so open and always revealed what he felt, that I knew full of rage, sorrow and joy. I wanted to shout him to shreds, scream my wrath into the sky and burst into tears all at once. Gods, I was so stupid. I had started to trust this man. Somehow I had felt respected by him, had started to believe that he was honest. That there could be something else between men and women than just abuse, indifference and neglection. I had hoped so much to have found something different.

Gods, I was so incredibly stupid.

"But that's not true!" His shout, furious and desperate, let me stop dead. I glared daggers at him.

"What is not true, Farkas? That you fucked her, that you left her alone afterwards or that these girls don't have a father?" I didn't care the slightest that Idgrod still sat at the table, leant back, watching quietly. It was her hall, after all.

His face was crimson as he drove anxiously with his hands through his hair, then propped his forehead into his palms, his gaze directed to the table.

"That I don't care," he said lowly. "It's not true that I don't care." Only resignation and sadness were in his voice.

"And why in Oblivion…" I shouted at him, but Idgrod's calm voice interrupted my outbreak. She lifted a hand to get my attention.

"Qhourian… let him explain. Yelling changes nothing."

I turned sharply to her. "With all due respect, Jarl Idgrod, but I don't need his explanations. He's either an ass or a coward or both. Probably both. They all are," I said bitterly.

A gentle smile curled her lips. "Are they now?"

I stared at her defiantly, my hands balled into fists. Of course they were.

"Qhouri… please." His voice held a plea, his gaze still lowered to the ground. He was an image of contrition and helplessness. Of course he was, now that he suddenly had to justify himself. And a bastard, an ass, a coward.

"Don't call me that," I said tiredly. Why was I so upset? Was this really a surprise? He was exactly that kind of guy I knew women would fall for, handsome and kind. On the outside. As long as he had his fun.

And for me, he was only an excellent warrior, someone I could evidentially kill dragons with. Everything else… it didn't concern me, after all. This Jonna was a grown woman, and whatever had happened between them, it wasn't my business. It had just confirmed what I knew anyway.

"Let me explain. Please."

"I don't want your pathetic explanations!" I flared up again, but now he rose his eyes to my face, dark with distress. And guilt. And determination.

"Please. It's not so easy."

"I better leave you two alone for a moment." Idgrod rose with a small smile and retreated through a door in the back of the hall. Right before she closed the door behind her, she turned once more to me. "No shouting in my hall!" she said with a grin.

I leant against a wooden pillar, rubbing my temples, avoiding his gaze. "I don't want your explanations. It's not my business anyway."

"But it's not like that. It's not always so easy. Please… just listen," he said imploringly. _It's not always so easy._ As if I was naïve with my silly expectations of mutual respect and support, especially when children were involved. As if my judgement was biased anyway because I knew nothing else.

But I knew nothing else.

"Speak," I said lowly.

He nestled nervously at a strap of his armour. "I haven't used her. Yes, we slept together, but… it has just happened. You can blame a lot on me, but not that I used her. I'd never do that." He took a deep breath, I felt his gaze on me although I studied the planks at my feet.

"I was travelling alone, and I was cold and tired and glad to come here, and there were no other guests and Jonna was so nice and lonely too, and we drank too much, and then it happened. We didn't want it, we both didn't want it, it was just… some comfort and warmth for the night. But she became pregnant, and she wanted to marry and wanted me to settle down here with her, but I couldn't! She's been wonderful, and perhaps I even loved her that night, but I couldn't leave my life and my family and Jorrvaskr just because…

"Gods, it sounds so wrong, just because! The girls are a miracle and a gift, and of course they're precious enough to do anything for them, but… they're better off with their mother here! Falion hates me, and perhaps he's right, but he acts as if I'm running around and impregnating everything with a pulse and a skirt. Jonna knows that's not true, and she knows that I care and I try to support her, but I just can't live the way she and Falion want me to. I told her I'd marry her if she didn't force me to leave Whiterun, but she said that this is her home and that Jorrvaskr is no place for children, and now she doesn't want to see me at all unless I stay... and I haven't seen them for at least half a year now, and to come back here under these circumstances, and with you…"

The words just tumbled out of him, a heartbreaking story of hurt feelings, irrational expectations and dashed hopes. Or of cowardice, wounded vanities and unfair prejudices. The situation was deadlocked, with everybody so set in their own ways… perhaps there simply was no solution. And it wasn't my business, after all. He would have to live with it, not I.

"Qhouri?"

Gods, I couldn't bear this helplessness in his face. As if he expected _me_ to fix this mess. I sighed. "It's your problem, Farkas. All I see is something completely messed up and that you take the easiest route and ignore it. Because you can, and she can't. You had some comfort and warmth for a night, and she has to deal with the result. That's a fact."

"But I do care! I want to care for them, I wanna spend time here or take them to Jorrvaskr when they're a bit older, if only she let me! Gods, they're four already and barely know their father…"

We were interrupted by heavy steps. The mage came back and dropped two tiny flagons in front of Farkas.

"Drink that and leave. And take your new whore with you."

I froze. There was a moment of deadly silence.

He wasn't just angry. He was furious. Despite his hurt leg Farkas shot up, grabbed the mage by the collar and lifted him like child. The way he ground his teeth I knew he struggled to keep control, and that he would have loved to break his neck.

_"__She… is… no… whore!"_ he roared, "she's not, and your sister isn't either, even if you like to think that in your pitiful blockheaded little brain! You will never again dare to approach the Dragonborn other than with respect, or you will pay with your life. Is that clear?" Falion's body, limp with fear, flew against the wall.

When Farkas wanted to go after him, his teeth bared in a feral snarl, I stood before him. My expression let him stop dead.

"You're a coward, Farkas," I snapped, "_I _can defend myself. _I_ don't need you to protect my honour. What does that mean, you want to care? Who cares if it's _not so easy_? If you really wanted, you'd just do it!"

He stared at me as if he had never seen me before, and I could watch how he forced himself to relax. The fury subsided, and only stern resolve was left as he squared his shoulders, his gaze flitting to the mage cowering against the wall, then back to me.

And then he nodded, grabbed one of the potions, gulped it down in one go and limped towards the door.

I called after him. "Where are you going?"

He didn't turn, only shot me a look over his shoulder. Bright, calm and determined. "Moorside."

Just like that. He was finished justifying himself and being yelled at and acted instead, not even noticing my amazement, only catching reflexively the second potion I threw him. They were pathetic anyway and he could barely walk. "Thank you," he said absentmindedly, already half through the door.

The moment the doors clapped shut, the mage scrambled to his feet and rushed after him.

I held him back. "You, Sir, will stay here with me."

He just smirked arrogantly and made for the exit. "I will not leave my sister alone with this monster. Try to stop me!"

Obstinate, that man. I shrugged, some people only learned through painful personal experience. A whispered _"Fus__"_ in his direction did the trick, and the disbelief in his face when he crashed against the wall again was reward enough.

"You will stay here, either voluntarily or by force. Your choice." I looked at him calmly. I wasn't even sure why I made this effort... all this wasn't my business, after all.

It wasn't his neither, though, and it seemed as if he had already spent far too much time messing up this whole affair. And Farkas was no monster. Perhaps a coward, perhaps an irresponsible bastard, but no monster.

Not in that sense, at least. A cheerless grin curled my lips. "Sit down." He did so, hesitant and with a murderous glare. "I want to hear your version of the story."

"Story? What story? That bastard used her for his own pleasure and left her alone with the result. Honourable Companion, what a sick joke. That piece of shit… nothing better than every other man."

I stared at him, rendered speechless. That were my words, nearly exactly. But coming from him, in this whiny, accusatory voice of his, their bias and bigotry pounced on me, locked their jaws into my throat and slapped me left and right into the face.

It wasn't always so easy. And who was I to judge?

"What is your problem? If I understood correctly, you didn't want to see him here at all?"

"Of course not! He defiled her with the children, he should marry her like every honest man would do it!"

Defiled her with the children? As mad as I had been at Farkas, this man made me really angry. I narrowed my eyes, glaring at him.

"You're a hypocrite, Falion. Your sister hasn't been raped. She slept with him on her own consent." That at least I believed him, Farkas wouldn't abuse a woman. The mage's head looked as if it wanted to explode, gasping like a fish on dry land. Seemed it was time someone talked straight to him. "Things like this happen, and all that matters is what people make of it. Children never defile anyone. But as as I see it, you never gave them the chance to deal something out." And Farkas was a coward because he didn't try harder, but I didn't say it out loud.

"Of course he won't marry her when he can have the Dragonborn!" Stubborn defiance stood in his face.

I was stunned for a moment, then I had to laugh. A reaction he certainly didn't expect.

"Gods, you're really a pitiful creature. You see a man and a woman travelling together, and your spoiled mind makes up everything else. Surprise, Falion: Farkas won't marry me either. I know him only for a few months, and each of us uses his own bedroll."

Luckily one of the maids of the household chose this moment to bring me a bowl with deliciously steaming stew and a filled tankard. My stomach growled approvingly, the last real meal had been in Solitude. "There's more where that comes from," the girl smiled when she saw me lunging for it.

Ignoring the mage for the moment, I nevertheless felt his gaze on me while I wolfed into the food.

"What?" I barked, "killing dragons is hard work!"

"If you let me go, I could get some more potions. For your shoulder…" he muttered.

"Yeah, something with deathbell and canis root. No thanks, you stay."

When I had finished eating we sat across each other in awkward silence. I didn't want to talk to him any more. Instead I thought about Farkas and what was going on in the inn.

He had been terrified to come here, I realised that now, much worse than just simple embarrassment. And the way I knew him... he wasn't afraid for himself. He was afraid to hurt others, to make everything even worse.

Vilkas knew about this, his reaction in Whiterun had revealed it. And... the girls were four already. Four years to make each other miserable, to shatter every bit of trust and understanding that could have been used to make things work. It wasn't only his fault... it never was only one person's fault, even I had to admit that. It was never so easy. Things like this could just happen. And Farkas... even if I knew him only as a warrior and my shield-brother, I knew that loyalty meant everything to him, to his family and friends, to those he cared for. He would go to Oblivion and back for them. And the same reasons that made women fall for him, his gentleness, sensitivity and humour, would have made him a good father as well.

If he was allowed to. It didn't seem as if he was, though. The silence in the hall stretched into eternity.

Seldom had I been so glad to see Farkas' face as in the moment when he poked his head through the door.

"Qhouri? Would you join me, please? I'd like to… introduce you to someone." The tension in his voice was unmistakable, his jaw tight, the forced smile not reaching his eyes.

I stood up with a groan, shoulder and ribs protesting against the movement after I had rested so long, but I was too glad to leave that brooding wizard behind.

When Farkas held the door open for me, I couldn't withhold my curiosity. He answered my questioning look with a sigh and a helpless shrug of his shoulders.

"It's… difficult. At first, she just wanted to throw me out. Can't blame her. If I were just a bit better in… explaining myself! I told her that I'm sorry that I haven't been here for so long. That I want to make things better, that I want to be a father for the girls. That I wanna try everything to find a way to make this work for all of us." Was that a hint of pride in his voice?

I gave him a weak smile. "Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you're no coward."

He drove anxiously with his hands through his hair. "You should have told me earlier. I'm not sure if it isn't already too late to fix this mess… I really want to see them grow up. But Jonna… she's not convinced. I told her of our travels. I tried to explain to her that this is… how I have to live. What I have to do. I'm not the man to settle down. I mean, what should I do here all day? And now she wants to meet you."

This had nothing to do with me, I kept telling myself, but I was nervous when we entered the inn.

"So, you're the woman who's keeping the father of my children away from his family."

This wasn't a good start, definitely. The dark alto sounded… well, at least it didn't sound outright hostile. But very, very aloof.

The woman leaving her place behind the counter was small, not even reaching Farkas' shoulders, but she radiated self-assurance and strength. She was in her early thirties, with years of hard work and sorrow leaving the first marks in her dark skinned face, the bun in her neck giving her an even sterner appearance. My smile wasn't returned.

"It's an honour to meet you, Jonna." I didn't know what else to say. The atmosphere was definitely below freezing.

The woman didn't return my greeting. She didn't even offer us a place, and her scrutiny was piercing.

"I don't care if you're a Companion or the Dragonborn. I just wanted to see the woman Farkas spends his time with instead to stay here where he belongs. Who hogs him away from his duty."

Holy Talos, not again. I only didn't turn on the spot and left because Farkas let out such a piteous groan. But I wouldn't _argue_ with this woman.

"Would you jump down my throat the same if I was a man, Jonna?" I asked calmly. "Your jealousy is silly, I have nothing to do with this mess you two managed to get in. You know what _I_ don't care about? I don't care what you think of me.

"Just to make a few things very clear: First, I didn't even know that you exist until a few hours ago, and I know Farkas only for a few months. You can blame a lot on me, but certainly not what you two fucked up five years ago. Yes, pun intended. Second, he's my shield-brother, not my lover. He may or may not marry whoever he wants, I don't care as long as he helps me to fight the dragons. And third, stop pretending you can force him to stay with your ridiculous demands. He won't, period, and you knew it when you first met him. You want a husband you can tie to your apron? Find yourself someone else. You want a father for your kids? Give him a chance. But leave me out of it, it's only between the two of you."

I smashed the door shut behind me. The cold air outside helped to calm me down, and beneath my fury I felt the exhaustion. Hopefully the Jarl's offer of a quarter for this night still stood.

I broke my fast alone, Farkas nowhere to be seen and Idgrod already busy. I didn't know if it was a good or a bad sign that Farkas had not spent the night in the Jarl's hall, but not even a dragon would have made me enter the inn and disturb… whatever was happening there. I just hoped everybody in there was still alive.

But the potions I had found in the guest quarters and the luxury of a full night of comfortable, undisturbed sleep left me longing for activity. Idgrod took pity on me when I strolled aimlessly through her hall for the third time.

"Qhourian, you look as if you're bored. What's the matter with your companion?"

"I'd rather not know," I snickered.

She gave me a lighthearted grin. "I've sent Falion on an errand today to keep him out of the way. But if you're that restless, how about a little job? A few of my men are setting out right now for a bandit raid to a camp in the Kjenstag ruins - far too many of them and far too near to Morthal for my liking. I'm sure my guards would appreciate any help, especially when it comes from the Dragonborn."

I was ready to go in mere minutes and joined the small group, welcomed by curious but friendly eyes. The captain of the guard was an old warhorse, a warrior charred and scarred by decades of fight and war, and I gladly settled under his command. It felt good to be just a part of a larger group for once, not to carry the responsibility.

But it proved to be not just the "little job" Idgrod had promised. The bandits outnumbered us nearly twofold, and they had excellent cover in the ruins of the old tomb. There was no subtlety in our attack, we needed to kill as many of them as fast as possible to ease the numbers out. At least I was able to get off some well placed shots from afar before the groups clashed together and every planned attack drowned in the subsequent chaos. Idgrod's men were well trained and geared, much better than our enemies, but they defended their miserable lives with a brutality and tenacity we hadn't expected. Soon I was in the middle of the chaos - I saw people fall around me, grabbed a shield from a dead brigand when mine was split into pieces by the mighty hit of a waraxe, tried desperately to keep track of all the small fights around me to avoid being surprised by an attack from behind. I wasn't used to this kind of fight, and I couldn't even resort to my Shouts - if I had used them, I would have hit half of my own comrades as well.

The fight took already far too long when I was locked in a frantic duel with a man in heavy steel armour, wielding a wickedly glinting warhammer with a range exceeding mine by far. Only for a second didn't I pay enough attention and slipped in a muddy puddle, felt my feet move away in directions I definitely didn't want them to, the man towering above me. He bared his teeth in a cruel grin, brutal and certain of his victory, certain that my dented shield wouldn't be able to halt the mighty hit aimed at my skull. It never came.

_"You__ never…" _ a huge shield parried the hammer,_ "…go on…"_ a familiar blade flicked fast like lightning behind it,_ "…a job…"_ my opponent fell limply to my feet, one of his arms nearly completely severed, _"…alone!"_ Farkas reached out to help me up, his eyes radiating relief.

"But I am not alone!" I was perplexed. And so glad to see him.

"True, but it seems they don't have your back."

Somehow, Farkas' sudden appearance changed the odds in our favour. He was right – together we were nearly invulnerable, and soon the guards gathered around us in a concentrated effort on the remaining bandits. When it was over, it was hard to believe we had only a single life to bemoan. Several of the guards were injured though, some of them seriously, but it could have been much worse.

"What are you _doing_ here, anyway? I thought you were… busy?"

"How about a bit of appreciation, sister? I've been looking for you, and when Idgrod told me where you've gone, what did you think I'd do? Wait for you with an ale at the fire while you've all the fun out here? I knew you'd need me." Don't get used to that pretentious smirk, brother. But I had to admit, he wasn't entirely wrong.

On our slow way back to Morthal the captain approached us. "That was… interesting, to see you both fight."

"Why? You guys are quite capable as well."

"Yes, but we fight differently. My boys are used to get their orders and do what they're told, everyone on his own. You two - you don't need orders. It seems that both of you always know instinctively what the other will do the next second. Impressive. And fearsome, from the wrong perspective."

"It's just a matter of… experience," Farkas answered. "We've been through many fights together, you get used to each other. It's how we Companions do things. We never go out alone, but we're seldom more than two of us. We're used to be outnumbered, and it's crucial to rely on your shield-sibling. It takes a lot of practice, and a lot of trust, but it becomes second nature after some time."

"Perhaps I should try this out as well. Form pairs of my men and let them work together. To have a backup when chaos ensues, like today, so they have someone to fall back upon." His face showed appreciation and respect.

Farkas smiled. "I will visit Morthal more regularly in the future. If you want to, I could visit your training from time to time."

"That would be an honour, Companion."

The sun was already setting when we finally reached Morthal, and I was astonished to see Falion take care of the wounded soldiers. He could be useful, after all. Farkas turned to the inn, but he grabbed my elbow when I wanted to return to Highmoon Hall.

"Don't you want to join us? At least for a drink?"

I gave him an incredulous look. "Are you crazy? I thought I made myself clear that I don't want to get involved into this mess."

He grinned sheepishly. "Yeah, you did, and quite impressively. But…" The grin turned into a beaming, joyous smile. "It's not quite such a mess any more, Qhouri. I've been with the girls yesterday, and we've played cards and had fun, and then... we have talked, Jonna and I. Really talked, about what went wrong and what we want and what we can do to make it better. Both of us."

"But that's good, isn't it? I mean... have you sorted things out? Found a solution?"

A hint of sadness flitted over his face and replaced the happiness. "I can't give her what she wants. But I want to be there for her, and for the kids, and I want them to know that I care and that they can rely on me, even if I'm not here all the time. And... I can just hope that's enough." He blushed slightly. "You were right with what you said, even Jonna had to admit it. You opened her eyes, and mine too, in a way. I can see now how she didn't like it at all that I talked so much about you, about our travels and dragons and stuff… I should have just told her that you're not… that we don't… " Now his ears glowed in a bright red.

I regarded him pensively. "It doesn't matter what people think, Farkas. And now you go and share some time with your family, but I'd rather stay at Highmoon."

"Okay." He seemed relieved. "I'll see you tomorrow then. How about breakfast together? Or do you have another bandit raid scheduled?"

"No, I'll leave for Riverwood tomorrow. Breakfast would be nice, but you can stay here for a few more days, and we meet up in Whiterun later."


	14. Brothers

Every stranger entering the Moorside Inn next morning would have just seen an utterly ordinary family having the first meal of the day together. Parents chatting about everyday problems like parents do it everywhere and have done it forever, the children wriggling about in their chairs, eager to finish and get out into the autumn sun. It looked so normal, and Farkas looked so rooted, so content as he sat there amidst his family, in his simple clothes, unarmed and unpainted - I wasn't sure what to make of it.

But his face lit up when I entered, my pack already slung over my shoulder and geared to leave. "Qhouri, there you are! Come on, sit down," his hand pointed at the chair beside him. I felt uncomfortable. Jonna's whole posture wasn't unwelcoming, but it also made very clear that this was her territory, and that I was only tolerated. That unlike Farkas, I didn't belong here.

The girls broke the ice. "Why do you wear armour for breakfast?" "Have you really slain a dragon?" "Are you a soldier?" "Do they spit fire?" "Have you found treasures in your travels?" Their innocent curiosity was as cute as overwhelming. Farkas stopped them with a laugh, urging them to let me eat and giving me opportunity to look at them more closely for the first time. Oh yes. No one but he - or his brother - were in question for this fatherhood.

Farkas' daughters were simply enchanting. Their dark skin, though several shades lighter than the one of their mother, and the long black curls flowing around their faces clearly showed their Redguard heritage. But they were big for their age, at least as far as I could estimate, with a lean but sturdy build, and their eyes… these silver-blue eyes shining out of their dark faces were absolutely unique. Farkas-eyes, in a big wide saucer version. Adorable. He would have to watch over them quite closely in a few years, when they'd have grown up to rather exotic beauties.

I didn't want to linger too long, the way back south would take several days at best, and I wanted to get as far as possible on the first. But… it was just too comfortable to sit in this small round, with the kids keeping us busy, asking questions about our travels, Jonna and Farkas trying together to keep their bursting vitality in check. I wasn't sure if there was a true peace agreement behind this exhibition of harmony or if it was just a truce, but I could see that Farkas was more relaxed than I had seen him for a long time. The warmth, the solidity of the situation spread over and into my own restlessness. After all, this was what we fought for. It was good to be reminded.

"Farkas, don't you have to pack?"

Jonna's words surprised me. "What do you have to pack? Didn't you want to…"

But he just stood up, laid a hand on my shoulder and left with a smile. "See you later, ladies!"

"And you two, out with you, Agni and Virkmund are already waiting. And leave the mill workers alone, that's no playground!"

Now I felt awkward, alone with the woman. She stared at me as if she wanted to explore - and judge - the core of my being. The silence between us seemed endless.

"He never even considered not to leave with you today, you know?" she said finally, refilling our tankards with tea. "Just as he didn't even consider not to go after you yesterday when the Jarl told him that you were out fighting bandits. That's probably just how it is… no, please don't say anything. I can't help it, and you can't help it either. I need to get some things off my chest, and I either say them now or never."

I swallowed my answer, but I knew my thoughts were easily readable. Relief that Farkas would come with me. Remorse that he'd come with me.

"I'm not happy with… all of this. Before you two appeared, I just got used to the situation. It's not easy to grow children as a woman alone, in a small village like this. People talk. And in my job, you become… fair game for some men, it's become even worse with all the soldiers passing through recently. But that's how it is, and I deal with it.

"But… I still had my dreams. I always wanted nothing more than a real family, a loving husband and a bunch of children to care for. Falion and I, we grew up without parents. He's always taken care of me, since I was a little girl, and he hasn't stopped till today. That's why he is so… stubborn, when it comes to me. He always thought he has to protect me. But I never abandoned this dream, and until now, it was tied to Farkas. I couldn't help it, he's the father of the two most precious gifts of my life. I loved him for it, for them, I still do, and I wanted nothing more than to live and raise them together with him. But every time he visited us, it's always been clear that he would leave again. And then I hated him for it. Not only because he doesn't want to settle down here with us, but because... he doesn't love me. Not like that. There was a time when I wanted to make him just as miserable as I felt. I knew I couldn't force him to choose me, but at least I wanted to force him to choose - between his life and his daughters.

"These days I've learned that this will never happen. I don't have the right to force him, and I have to think of the girls - they deserve to know their father, it's not that they have to be ashamed of him. But mainly because I've seen you both together, and heard how he talks about you. Yes, I know, you're not… whatever, and I believe you. But everybody can see how close you are. Oh, I'm still mad at you, because whatever you say, you share so much more with him than I ever did or ever will. But you also opened my eyes about this. That even if you were killed by a dragon today, it would change nothing for me. There's no good to clench to silly dreams which will never come true."

She took a deep breath.

"What I wanted to say, actually: Whenever Farkas comes to visit us, you're welcome here too. And I wanted to ask you to… look after him, please. You're on a dangerous road. Please watch over him."

The usual cheerfulness was missing from him when we finally left Morthal, his face set and unreadable. I remembered the last moments. I stood apart, not wanting to disturb as Farkas was occupied with his daughters. "Take care of each other, will you?" he whispered into their ears when he finally set them down, their thin arms slung around his neck. He hugged Jonna closely, their foreheads leaning against each other and whispering something, but then he followed me out of the town and didn't look back.

I felt a weight lifting from me when the last building vanished behind us. I envied him. He had an ability to make himself at home wherever he came, to root himself in places, to be content with the moment that escaped me entirely. It felt awful to know that I had ripped him away from one of these places again, but I was relieved that we finally left.

Relieved, but not relaxed. Not as relaxed as I had been with him before all this, and he wasn't either.

Somewhere during the last days we had lost the lightness in our dealings, the easygoing companionship. For the first time we had fought and yelled at each other, but that wasn't the problem – the problem were the implications of this argument. Jonna's speech had disturbed me deeply, because although she spoke mainly about herself, it entailed so much about my shield-brother… and about me. She didn't know me, we had met only for a few minutes, and still she had come to the conclusion that we were closer than they had ever been. I asked myself what he had told her that she got this impression. If he compared her with me.

_She_ had compared herself with me, and it scared me. I didn't want to be _close_. Not like this… not like the mother of his children. And I didn't want to think of him as a man, as a lover or a father. Men were dangerous. Brothers were not.

"Qhouri?" His quiet voice ripped me out of my thoughts while we trotted eastwards along the street.

"Hm?"

"Are you still mad at me?"

Gods... such a simple, innocent question, and I didn't even have an answer to that. I raked my fingers through my hair. "No," I said curtly.

The silence built between us, he went a few steps behind me, and my shoulders tensed under his stare.

When I felt his hand on my shoulder, I yanked violently out of his grip, my gaze directed to the ground.

"What is it?" he asked softly.

"Stop that staring!" it broke out of me, "she has no reason to be jealous!"

A small smile curled his lips. "Of course she has. We spend time together, slay dragons, see places no one has seen for ages, experience incredible things, have lots of fun... of course she'd like to take your place. Except the dragons, perhaps."

"But we're not..."

He became serious. "She's not jealous of _you_, Qhouri... she'd feel the same towards Aela or Ria if they had been here with me."

I pressed my lips into a thin line. "But not towards Vilkas or Skjor."

His face closed down. "That's true. And it's stupid." His jaw was tight. "I'm sorry, Qhouri. I didn't want you to get involved in this... I really didn't. I know I made mistakes... and I'm sorry you have to deal with this now. That people think we sleep together and Falion called you a whore."

I took a step away from him. "_That's_ not the problem, Farkas. For the longest time, people _knew_ that I fucked every man who was important enough to my master. That they _assume_ now that I sleep with you... that's something I can live with."

I turned on my heels and resumed my march along the road. He didn't understand. Of course he didn't. It was his carefree, lighthearted attitude that made it so easy to like him, even to trust him... how could he understand me? How could he understand that _he_ was the problem, not what people thought about me?

We walked quietly for some minutes, but then I heard fast steps behind me, and suddenly he stood before me like a wall, stopping my walk. His hands came up to my shoulders, his grip firm and determination in his face, the same expression he had worn when he had gone to confront Jonna.

"I wanna get this out of the way, once and for all. Listen to me." He clenched his teeth. "It's over, Qhouri. No one will ever again touch you without your consent. You won't be forced and you won't be abused, never again. And you don't have to _live with it_ when someone calls you a whore. Because you aren't. You're a Companion, and you deserve the same respect as everybody else."

I stood stiffly in his grip, caught in his unrelenting stare. And then a breath broke from my ribcage I wasn't aware that I had held it, the tension releasing all of a sudden.

"I'm sorry," I whispered, "I didn't mean to..."

"I know what you meant," he interrupted me. "You're scared and angry and you think that I'll treat you like I treated her... careless and selfish. I know it's my own fault. I do not know how to make up for it... I can just ask you to believe me that even an icebrain like me is able to learn, and that I respect you. As a warrior, as a shield-sister, how you cope with this Dragonborn stuff and with everything you've left behind. And I will have your back as long as you need me." A single muscle twitched in his jaw, but his pale gaze burnt into mine. "Trust me, sister. Please."

I bit my lip. I didn't know if it were only his beast senses, if he could smell what I felt, but he looked through me and understood, perhaps better than I did myself. The feeling that I had to guard myself against him was driven by fears that were not real... and again I had underestimated him. Never had I felt disrespected by him. Not once.

"What did she mean... when she said we're close?"

He cocked his head. "I'm not sure. That we look after each other. That we're a good team." His smile was soft, and he tugged a braid behind my ear. "And we are. You're just not used to someone looking after you."

He turned and gave me a light push before he removed his hand from my shoulder. "Let's get going. It's far too late already, we gotta get through that Labyrinth."

We resumed our march, side by side now and in companionable, comfortable, truly relaxed silence. Now we had really left Morthal behind, at least for the moment. Shooting him a sidewards glance, I had to smile when I remembered how we had met for the first time and how I had panicked. We had gone a long way in these few weeks since then.

Sometimes I thought I knew him quite well in the meantime, but then something happened, and his reaction left me flummoxed. He was a simple man with so many facets. His fierceness in battle, the beast always lurking directly under the surface, feeding him his instincts, but the man nevertheless always in contact with his sibling, attentive and protective, never losing control. His keen loyalty to his pack, family and friends without expecting anything in return. His open, honest, sometimes blunt attitude that let him voice things that would have been impossible to talk about otherwise. His humour, always flaring up when least expected, revealing his sense of absurdity and silliness. And his naïvety, sometimes, when it came to the… more complicated human interactions. Like now, with his family. And when it led to helplessness and confusion, he fought through it like he fought through every obstacle, unafraid to be hurt.

But he caught me staring and pouted. "You're making fun of me. Again."

It made me laugh. "No. Just thought how scared I was when we first met. Everything hurt, and I didn't know where I was and then _you_ turned around the corner..."

"It's my job to be scary," he grumbled, but then he gave me a feeble smile. "I could smell your fear. I don't like when people are scared without reason."

I gave him a lighthearted grin. "I'm not scared any more." I paused for a moment. "And better like that than otherwise. I would've never set a foot into Jorrvaskr if I had met Athis or you just... accidentally."

He gave me an odd look. "Accidentally? In the Mare, for example? What do you think would have happened?"

I chuckled. "Nothing, of course. I would've gaped at you from afar and you wouldn't even have noticed."

He grinned cheekily. "No, I don't think so. Imagine a totally ordinary girl having an afterwork drink... and a totally ordinary group of Companions storming the Mare to blast themselves off Nirn." His grin became mischievous, his eyes sparkling with roguish laughter. "Perhaps we would have met at the counter, and I would have jostled into you and sloshed your drink over your dress. And of course I would have bought you a new one or three, and we would have talked and drunk together and perhaps danced to one of those ballads these bards always play to get things going. We would have had fun, and then you would have somehow landed in my lap, and we would have drunk some more, and you would have whispered naughty things into my poor dizzy little brain."

I blushed at the suggestiveness in his voice, but his grin was so impish that I played along. "Is that what totally ordinary girls having an afterwork drink do with a group of totally ordinary Companions?"

"Aye. I must know, after all," he said, nodding with utter conviction.

"And then?"

He bit his lip to remain earnest. "Then? Oh. Then I would have gifted you to Vilkas."

My jaw fell to the ground with a dull thud. "You would have done _what_?"

"Yeah. He likes women he can work himself out with, and you would've been too drunk to recognise the difference anyway." He gave me an exaggerated once-over, but his wolfish gaze was completely ruined by the snicker he couldn't suppress. "No. Definitely not my type. Far too tall and not cute enough."

He took in my dumbfounded expression with a roaring laughter, patting my back roughly. "Silly questions get silly answers, Qhouri."

There was nothing more relaxing than to share a laugh with him. And to punch his shoulder hard enough to make him stagger.

The first sight of the field of ruins called the Labyrinthian was as breathtaking as dreadful, a foreboding sense of doom already setting in as when we approached. The circular valley was embedded high into the mountains, rocky slopes rising steeply on all sides and accessible only via a narrow path we had climbed in the dimming light. And it was called Labyrinthian for a reason. Below us extended a maze of dark, grey arcs, buildings, stairs and ramps, partly intact, partly crumpled to mere heaps of stone, so large that the other side wasn't visible through the low clouds and the snow.

I didn't want to go down there.

Idgrod had advised us to track through the ruins during the light of day - it was chaotic and dangerous, populated by trolls, beasts and perhaps even worse, but it was still the fastest way to cross the mountains cutting Hjaalmarch from Whiterun Hold. And the weather changed for the worse the higher we got.

"Can't we stay here for the night?"

"No, no chance. We need at least some shelter. This," Farkas pointed to the clouds, "will become a blizzard soon. We're not prepared for that. There will be plenty of cover down there, in the worst case we can sit it out in one of those domes."

Gods. I didn't want to spend the night in a city of the dead.

He was right and reasonable of course, but an irrational fear made me shiver. I knew this wasn't even the real labyrinth the place had its name from; that was located underground, below our feet, and we didn't plan to enter it. I had seen enough of these Nordic tombs to know what could lurk inside, had visited and explored and cleansed them. They had never evoked that unexplained terror I felt facing these silent stones.

Farkas felt nothing of it, though. "Come on, let's proceed as long as there's enough light left to see where we go." He knew of my horrible sense of direction, essentially non-existent as soon as I had to go without sun, moons and stars to help with orientation. I knew how to help myself, turning always left when in doubt and trusting that every cave had an entrance and an exit, but that wouldn't help in this stonen chaos.

Of course we got lost, and fast. The whirling snow around us made every orientation impossible, and all the arches and walls looming above us like petrified giants looked so absolutely the same we lost track of where to go and where we'd already been in mere minutes. When even Farkas had to admit that he had no idea where exactly we were, much less where to turn next, I hurried for the opening of one of those circular domes that usually served as an entrance to the underground. We would have to ride out the storm and the night here, on the broken, shattered ground of an ancient tomb.

There was nothing to prepare for the camp, we didn't even have the means to make a fire. I dropped down on my bedroll, hunched up against the wall, knees to my chest, and tried to calm down and to prepare for the coming hours. It was probably just the wind pelting through vents and openings evoking these hollow howls, but for my tingling senses the sound carried something clearly evil with it. I felt the freezing cold slowly crawl into my bones like a living being, gnawing at my flesh, leaving me numb and deaf and ready.

I didn't know when it started, if it started at all or if it had been there all the time. The ground below me, unsolid, caverned and populated with unnamed beings began to tremble, gently, nearly impalpable, as if something slowly broke free from the depths, crushed the earth like the shell of an egg. It was a soothing motion, cradling my body and my mind. As if something made itself known and came to fetch me, lure me down there, with a subtle promise of warmth and stability and rest. My own shivers became one with the movement that could be a breath or the slowly drumming beat of a heart measuring time in millennia, not years or hours. I could feel it as well as I could hear it, the whisper that roared through my dazed brain.

_"Dov… Ah… Kiin!"_

A Shout that echoed through the ruins or just a whisper in my mind, I didn't care. Dragonborn. Soul of a dragon. Blood of a dragon. Child of a dragon.

I was nothing, and all of this.

There was more, more words and more meanings, and I wanted this knowledge more than I had ever wanted anything before, a desire and yearning that poured through my veins. I wanted to understand them. I wanted to understand _him,_ he who called out to me, wanted it more than my freedom, my power, my humanity. I would give it all up for this power and this knowledge, freely and gladly.

But he was gentle as he called to me, tender like the brother that he was. A true brother, master of the Voice, forgotten, discarded and lonely, deprived of his soul, trapped down in the bowels of the earth. He gave to me what he had to give like a gift, words and wisdom from the beginning of time, freely and fondly. And he took from me only what I could do without.

Soul of a dragon, soul of a human. Immortality is knowledge, mortality is life. He called to me, my eternal brother, the stones around us his bones, the freezing wind his breath, my breath the soul he wanted for himself. Soul to be shared, soul to be given, ready to be devoured. Not knowledge, but life. Knowledge for life.

The cold engulfed me like a flame, my heart beating the peaceful rhythm of the nameless, the frozen earth becoming my refuge. The earth itself thrummed my name, like a whisper, like a screech, like a Shout.

_"Dov… Ah… Kiin!"_

_"QHOURIAN!"_

It was my name too, and my shelter shattered. There was white, nothing but endless, blinding white. The cold became viscid, sticking to my bare skin, and I struggled, fought to feel or to see or to smell, anything but this horrible, ceaseless, eternal void. I screamed and heard nothing, cried for deliverance, but there was no one to spend it. I had lost my senses, and nothing was left.

The sudden pain came in a single strike, and when a part of me hurt it didn't matter which one, finally there was _something_. Embracing the pain, whimpering for more, and more of it came. Pain, in my back, on my arms, on my cheeks, blows that shattered the ice with their gentle force and thawed my flesh. Merciful strikes, turning into strokes like needles, piercing my skin and making blood flow again. And finally darkness, peaceful, faithful darkness. No more eternal white, my senses were back.

He had carried me, away from the treacherous, broken ground of the tomb, through the snow and the lightning, as high as possible. How did he know?

"How did you know?" My voice was hoarse like the cracked glass under my skin. But I heard myself speak.

Eyes like the sky, so lost, so tender.

"I had to hurt you." His voice, indistinguishable from the thunder rolling around us.

He shivered violently, a different tremble, alive, aware and ashamed, but he didn't let go. Didn't let me go. Hands hard and strong like steel held their relentless grip on my mind.

"You stay now. Or I'll do it again." Heavy puckered brows, black lines against pale skin, snowflakes on the lashes. Another brother's breath, warm and soothing and persuasive. He breathed for me through the darkness, persistent and stubborn, and he was my shelter until the light was back.

I was a mess, senses not working like they should. Vision blurred and oversensitive, hearing without understanding, voices I didn't understand… but at least I _knew_ something was wrong. I was held tight, pressed against a familiar black chest, claws in my skin, fangs glittering above me. The plains drifting past in a flurry, green and brown and blue. No more white, and finally I could sleep in safety.

And then I was warm and safe again, sounds and scents around me familiar.

"Not sure if I'm still jealous. Fire and ice are okay, claws and teeth are okay, but this? This is scary."

Scary, yes. He had no idea. Eyes the colour of freshly shed blood, darkened with concern. He lay beside me in that bed with the familiar wolfish smell, head propped into his palm, his legs entangled with mine. Another brother, not tender, but protective. I didn't remember anything but the endless nothing.

"I don't want to lose my mind, Athis." Speaking hurt. My throat felt as if I had coughed glowing coals. Perhaps I had.

"Oh, I'm sure it won't go far. Too much madness going on here, if I were a mind gone crazy I'd feel quite comfortable here. But if I find it, I'll bring it back."

I turned to the side, and he moved over, released me. Always cold fingers on my cheeks, tugging some lose streaks behind my ear, scratches on his bare arms. He followed my gaze.

"Good to see you back, sister. Stay a bit longer for now, won't you?"

"How often did you save my sanity yet?"

"As often as necessary. It's fun." His eyes sparkled.

"Doesn't look like that."

"Oh, it's nothing. We took turns in guarding you, Aela and I. Just had to keep you from hurting yourself… and you're in good shape, you know. It was a bit like brawling, but Njada is worse."

"How long have I been out?"

"Two days since Farkas brought you here. Before that – don't know."

"Where is he?"

"Just came back from Riverwood. Said he needed to fetch something."

You are crazy. _All of you._

Farkas' steps were faint, fatigue nesting deep in the lines of his face as he entered my room – his room -, the horn in his hands. It was beautiful, although it didn't fit to any animal I knew, carved with ashdyed glyphs and runes. Ancient, dead signs. So much trouble for such a tiny thing.

"She didn't want to believe that I'm the Dragonborn." His chuckle was gentle.

"As if you hadn't enough souls to carry around. Who is _she_?"

"Delphine, the keeper of the Sleeping Giant. I know her for… don't know, ages already, and her face was priceless when I wanted to rent the attic room. Which doesn't exist, by the way. It still took a bit of… persuasion. She didn't tell me what exactly she's doing there and why she stole the horn, but she's certainly no common inn-keeper. And of course she still wants to see you." His grin was lighthearted.

This Delphine, I remembered her from my trip with Athis to Bleak Falls Barrow, an elderly, unremarkable Breton woman. "She made it alone through Ustengrav?" I asked sceptically. "Must be something _very_ different from a common innkeeper, if you ask me."

"Yeah. Seems like everybody has his secrets nowadays. I think the note I stole from your pack was convincing, in the end. If you're not the Dragonborn, the real one won't find it either, so she gave me the horn, and at least now we don't come with empty hands when we go back to the Greybeards."

High Hrothgar, yes. I needed to go there, and as soon as possible. She would have to wait, as well as all the other riddles awaiting me.

Whatever had happened in these cursed ruins, it was too big for me and my fragile human wits. Nothing in the world was worth my sanity, and this hole in my mind, this absolute lack of remembrance… to say it drove me crazy would be inappropriate, probably. Whatever had happened, there had to be a reason for it, why there, why then. A trigger. Perhaps I could protect myself if I knew what caused it. I knew – next time, if there was a next time and if I was equally unprepared, perhaps I wouldn't come back. Perhaps nobody would be able to bring me back, not even Farkas. The Greybeards had to help me, had to teach me, there was nobody else but them. I needed to understand. But I knew how much he hated that place.

"You will come with me?"

He gave me a small smile. "I'd like to, yes. I wanna know too what happened with you. It was… scary, you know?"

"Not only for you." A shiver shook me. "I remember nothing. Only that there was... something... or someone calling out to me. And that you carried me back." I paused for a moment as I saw him frown. "I'm not sure if I wanna know what it was. Just if I can protect myself."

"I daren't even imagine how it must scare you. But… holing up and doing nothing won't help, Qhouri. We're Companions, and I am your shield-brother, and we will overcome this. This fear and these mysteries and every single bloody dragon daring to threaten us."

He was so full of confidence, it was easy to believe that he was naïve, that he underestimated the challenges and dangers I would have to face. But he wasn't, he had fought a dragon with me and somehow known what to do in the Labyrinthian. If he was naïve, I was too.

I gave him a weak grin. "Every single bloody ugly heap of scales?"

He laughed and yawned at the same time. "Aye. And I'll even climb these horrible 7000 steps to this awfully boring cloister with you again. You sure you don't wanna send me to Oblivion instead? That would probably be more fun."

I straightened myself with a groan and swang my feet to the ground. "No. But I'll leave you to your rest now, you look as if you need it."

But he pushed my shoulder gently back against the pillow. "Stay here, Vilkas is out on a job and I can take his room. You think you can travel tomorrow? Athis and Torvar have a contract in the Rift, we could accompany them till Ivarstead." I nodded, thankful that I didn't have to get up. It felt good to be pampered for a bit. Although I wasn't injured, every muscle ached as if it had been struck by lightning, and I was incredibly tired.

He stood up and turned to leave, but I held him back, swallowing nervously. There was something I had to get off my chest first. "Farkas… I'm sorry. For yelling at you, in Morthal. I was… unjust and rash. Sorry."

He blushed, his hand already on the knob of the door. "It's okay," he mumbled. "You were right, after all. In a way."

"No, I wasn't. I was prejudiced."

Now he turned to me, his face serious. "I'm glad you were there with me, Qhouri. This whole matter… it has killed me for years, and nothing would've changed if you hadn't been there now. And…" a small grin quirked his lips, "better you than Aela. _She_ would've killed me."

"You will have to tell them if you wanna bring the girls here."

"Yeah. Only Vilkas and Kodlak know so far. But it's about time."

"You're no coward, brother."

"If you say so." He cracked a feeble smile. "Sleep well, sister."

* * *

"You bastard! That's _cold__!_"

"Don't tell, really?" The Dunmer with the fiery red eyes managed to present a look of utter innocence.

The two men, honourable, widely acknowledged and often dreaded warriors, armed to the teeth and adorned with their usual warpaint, rolled through the first real snow of the year like little children. Like very boisterous little children. Torvar shook himself like a whelp after an involuntary bath, the snowball Athis had shoved below the hood of his cloak slowly melting into his armour.

"I wish there had been snow in Morrowind when I was a kid," the mer chuckled, "your loss I have to make up for it now. 't will just sober you up!" The bearded man growled and darted after the smaller Dunmer, but Athis was far too agile to let himself catch. "Told you, all that steel just weighs you down!"

The game became fierce soon, like everything these guys did. Snowballs flew from every direction, we shoved each other face first into the white splendour and chased over the undisturbed white landscape, our laughter resounding widely over the plains… until Athis hit one of the patrolling guards on the road right in the back. The man stumbled and turned with an impatient curse, but facing the grinning, panting warriors around him he obviously didn't know how to react. I squared my shoulders, suppressed my heavy breathing and a snicker and stepped forward.

"Sir, I must apologise for these… louts." The indignant cough behind me made it even harder to remain serious. "But you know how they are… hard to keep busy with meaningful work, especially as you and your comrades keep the area so admirable clean of everything they could take their spirits out on. I'll see that they blow off steam on something else." I presented him my sweetest smile, which was instantly ruined by Athis' giggle.

"Are you sure they don't have a… more general problem with discipline and respect?" The guard replied, his smirk visible even under his helmet.

"Yes, Sir, unfortunately you're right. I know it's hopeless. That's why they've become only Companions instead to join the honourable troops watching over our lovely hold!"

The guard snickered. "Okay, I will leave it at this, citizens. For now! Be on your way."

I didn't even have time to reply when I felt myself tossed over a broad shoulder. Farkas held me only with an arm slung around the backs of my knees, and it didn't bother him the slightest that I pummelled his armoured back until my knuckles hurt.

"I think we will show this lady first hand how the Companions deal with matters of discipline and respect, Sir. We have our methods too." His voice trembled with choked laughter.

The guard laughed out loud and waved a jovial goodbye. "Oh, I'm sure you have. See you in the Mare, guys!"

I struggled the best I could, less in hope to break free but to make it for Farkas as unpleasant as possible to carry me further. He was definitely not impressed.

"Hey! I just saved your backs, you brutes! He would have let you rot in jail till… tonight, at least!" Now I cursed that we weren't more in a hurry. My own fault that the Valtheim Towers just waited for us, cleared and ready to provide the shelter for the night.

"Okay guys, any ideas? What are we gonna do with this dear _sister_ of ours now? By the way, Qhouri, you're quite heavy for a lady!"

"Yes I know, that's because I always have to carry around all this _stuff_ to save your precious behind when you're in the mood to call a dragon names. If you want a damsel, try Athis!"

"The way she looks it's the worst punishment when you just take her around like that. Like a flour sack. How's the perspective from there, Qhouri?" Torvar bowed down to me, and I managed to punch him in the face. He deserved the black eye he'd get. "Sister, I had no idea you're so fierce! What do I have to do to make you let it out more often?" His grin was smug. "And why does Farkas look as if he knew?" That was Torvar - always more bark than bite.

"Don't carry it too far, Torvar. You don't wanna make me angry. You have no idea what happens when women like me get angry and start to _shout_!"

I felt more than heard Farkas' laughter rumble beneath me, and I couldn't help but to join in. It was silly, and it felt good to be silly for once. But he knew when a joke was over and finally set me down, holding on for a moment longer than necessary.

"Stop carrying me around!"

An amused smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. "Whelps who don't show their elders the respect they deserve have to bear that they're treated like whelps."

I frowned at him. "You're messing with a dragon, puppy."

"But I'd never dare to. Dragonling." And with a swift motion he shovelled a handful of snow into my face, blinding me for a moment. Athis had laid the snowball into his outstretched palm just in time, and the mer doubled over from laughter when I squealed in shock, the icy water dripping under my armour and drenching my tunic.

Farkas jogged along the road, looking back over his shoulder with a mischievous grin. "Get going, pups, or no bedside story tonight!"

He would regret that. And no stamina-restoring necklace would save him.

I shoved Athis roughly away, he stumbled into Torvar and both landed on their behinds.

_"WULD!"_

The Shout let my fly forwards with the speed of an arrow, the impact on Farkas' armoured back forcing the breath from my lungs, not very elegant but efficient. He toppled over with a startled yelp and slid prone into a snowdrift, and with me kneeling on his back he wasn't able to get up again. Not with his head buried in snow, coughing and cursing.

I leant forwards. "Don't mess with dragons, brother," I whispered into his ear.

* * *

A/N: A special thanks to Julie5.


	15. Futile

"It's all a question of preparation," Torvar announced dryly as he pulled an insane amount of mead bottles from his pack. "I wanna see them empty tomorrow, or you'll have to carry them yourself."

We had arrived at the Valtheim Towers before sunset, and Farkas' stew, Torvar's supplies and the fire in the closed room soon dispatched the cold from my bones. Usually drinking with the Companions was something hard to keep under control, always loud, always boisterous, full of shenanigans and without thought about the odd looks of others or the next morning. This evening didn't end in half-conscious intoxication. Instead I felt myself relax, shake off the tension that lingered in my bones since I had woken in Jorrvaskr and give in to my exhaustion. And here, in this nearly cosy ruin and with these three men around me, I felt sheltered and safe.

Torvar recounted a job in an Orc stronghold where he had to spend a night outside, freezing and sober, just to realise next day that he was hired to beat up the chieftain's wife when I dozed off. I still giggled about his flowery description of the fight and the thrashing the woman had given him while her husband sat in the audience and spurred him on when the peaceful atmosphere took its toll, my eyes slipping shut over and over again, no matter how hard I tried to keep them open, my head sagging against Athis' shoulder. Next I knew was that I lay curled together at the fire, a fur beneath and another one draped over me, the coals glowing dimly in the darkness. Torvar snored on one side, Athis lay flat on his back and breathed soundlessly on the other.

Farkas was nowhere to be seen, but I was wide awake, rose silently and made my way to the top of the tower where I found him, his elbows propped on the railing, the light breeze playing in his hair. He turned his head and gave me a smile when he heard me coming up the creaking stairs.

"Hey," he said lowly.

"Hey." I stepped beside him. He had chosen his place in such a way that he had the length of the road leading to and away from the towers in sight. But it was quiet, nothing moved. Only behind and high above us on the steep mountain flank rolled a pebble down the slope, probably just a goat. And in the distance, on the opposite side of the river up in the hills, an enormous fire was sending sparks and smoke towards the sky – a giant camp, no danger as long as we left them alone.

It was quiet and peaceful, around us and between us.

But eventually his low voice broke the silence. "Have you regained your memory? About what happened?"

I turned my head, studied him from the side. I didn't know why he brought it up now. "No."

His fingers started to play nervously with a piece of mortar he had cracked out of the wall. "I wanna tell you... before I have to tell the Greybeards."

A shiver ran down my spine. "You brought me away from that place. And then you carried me home. Was there anything else?"

"Yes." He stared down to the river, became quiet for endless seconds. "I hit you. I had to... I thought I have to hit you." Now he turned his head, distress in his face. "You don't remember?"

My breath hitched. "No."

He spoke on quickly, nearly breathlessly. "You were so stiff, and you didn't react any more, to nothing I did. I yelled at you that every frost troll around must have heard me, only you didn't. I just knew I had to take you away, but I couldn't leave the ruins in that storm. To take you higher was the only idea I had, but it wasn't enough."

"Not enough?" Although I could barely see his face, I heard the tension in his voice, the muscles in his neck strained.

"No. It was... as if you were dreaming. Somewhere else, and you couldn't wake." He swallowed.

"I've seen someone like this… once before. Vilkas… when he was small, when we were new in Jorrvaskr... he couldn't sleep, and when he slept, he had nightmares. Horrible nightmares. I've been with him all the time then, and usually all was good when he woke up. No, not good, but better. But once, he didn't wake up. He didn't react to anything I did, just like you, and I didn't know what to do, and then Jergen came and hit him. Slapped him till there was life in his eyes again and he could cry and was back. It was terrifying. I did the same with you, hit and pinched you to cause you pain. Perhaps I should have done something else, I saw you wanted to cry but couldn't, that you wanted to breathe but couldn't, and I was so scared…" his voice trailed off, and it became silent again.

And I had wondered how I got those bruises on my upper arms, dark blotches that only hurt when I poked them directly. I had thought they came from his claws pressing in while he rushed back to Whiterun, or from Athis holding on too tight when I fought him in my unconsciousness. I hadn't asked, they weren't severe and the idea that one of them would hurt me just because he could never even emerged in my mind.

But it made him feel bad, obviously.

I nudged my elbow into his side. "Hey."

He turned his head to me. It was astonishing how the moonlight caught in his eyes, made them gleam in their frame of dark warpaint. "Thank you, brother. You've done what was necessary. And thanks for your memories."

A small, relieved smile curled his lips, and his shoulders relaxed. We stood side by side, listening into the night. For me, the silence was only filled with the rushing of the waters below us, an everlasting background noise, only occasionally drowned out by a gust of wind in the trees or the squawk of a sleeping bird. I wondered how much sharper his senses were, what he could hear, smell and see that I couldn't. When his head jerked towards the east, nostrils flared, I knew there was something.

He met my curious gaze with a smile. "Wolves," he whispered. "Listen. Their song." I concentrated, closed my eyes to focus on my hearing, but it remained quiet. And then it was suddenly there, faint, far away but unmistakable, the howl of the alpha followed by the choir of the pack, merging together and echoing through the hills, warning and reminding the land of their power.

It didn't work, not any more. Since the night in the Underforge, their voices had lost their terror on me.

Farkas leant against the parapet, listening, longing on his face. The sound came nearer, and perhaps he not only heard, but understood them. I laid my hand on his wrist. "Go," I said. "I'll keep watch."

He turned his attention to me, a question in his eyes. He held my gaze for a moment, his index coming up and stroking along my chin, careful and rough, but then he nodded and was gone. The huge figure that emerged from the shadows at the foot of the tower only a minute later lifted its monstrous visage up to me and let out a yelp before it leaped into the darkness. It made me smile.

* * *

"You don't have really an idea what these dragons actually are, do you?"

We sat in the warm quarters of High Hrothgar we had occupied before, the only room which held the piercing cold ruling everywhere else in these walls at bay. A fire spread its warmth, the light of the flames mingling with the ones of dozens of candles.

This was a time for questions and answers, not for practice or meditation, and I couldn't learn when my brain was frozen. Master Arngeir looked expectantly from me to Farkas and back. My shield-brother was explicitly invited to join in my lessons this time. Not only was he the missing link to my lost memory concerning the events in the Labyrinthian, if he was to join me any further on this way - and he was dead set on doing so - it couldn't hurt if he knew the same things about our enemies that I knew.

"They're oversized lizards, and we can kill them." Farkas' voice was a low, confident rumble, and it made me chuckle. For him, this was the essence of our quest. Even Arngeir showed the touch of a smile for this answer.

"Well, yes and no," the Greybeard said. "Yes, it's possible to kill their bodies. A well placed arrow or a sharp sword can do that. Unfortunately, they are in many regards like us – there's much more to them than just muscles and scales." Arngeir turned to me, his face now grave. "You know what makes you so special, Dragonborn?"

"I can take their souls and make their power my own. And with this power, I have to fight them." I was slightly confused. We had spoken about all this already, more than once.

"Yes, but that's not all. The dragons you encounter now… they're not _new_. They're ancient, from the beginnings of time, and they have already been killed once, thousands of years ago during the Dragon Wars. But now they're back, something's bringing them back to life. We don't know how, but they're the same dragons our ancestors fought."

This sounded a lot like one of the ancient myths Athis knew so wonderfully to recount. Dragons had been extinct, nobody had seen a single one of them for thousands of years. They were a legend, used to scare children. Certainly the ones we encountered now couldn't be the beasts from the old songs?

Arngeir regarded my obvious disbelief with a stern look.

"And only if _you_ kill them and take their souls, they will stay dead."

He gave me a few moments to let the meaning of his words sink in, and it became eerily silent in the small room. I was the only one who could truly defeat them. The vague idea that had lingered in the back of my mind since Farkas and I had left Jorrvaskr for Ustengrav, to make the Companions and everyone willing to take part in this fight into an army of dragonslayers, it went up in smoke.

My helplessness must have been written into my face. "But... that's impossible! How am I to end this all on my own?"

My shield-brother thought the same, obviously. "And with attacks like the one in the Labyrinthian on top of that. That's madness. There must be something to protect her." His voice sounded urgent.

Reminded of the main reason why we were here, Arngeir looked concerned. "Dovahkiin… I don't know what happened to you in the Labyrinthian, but I know that it's more than just a large tomb. It's an age-old place full of magic. Arch-mage Shalidor lived and worked there in the first era, and the mages from the college always had an… unhealthy interest in it. Nobody knows what it contains. Perhaps a dragon has been trapped there. Perhaps a dragon has been raised there. Perhaps one of the old dragon priests feels his power renewed. We don't know, like so much we don't know. But the fact that it called you, that it recognised you… I'm afraid this means that powers not under our control have noticed the arrival of the Dragonborn."

He fell silent. The numb fear I had felt after I woke up in Jorrvaskr returned. I wasn't prepared to fight something like this, something that attacked only my mind. I couldn't fight powers I didn't see or understand.

"I'm not sure if it's possible to shield yourself against such attacks. You have to be careful, listen to your senses. And you too, Farkas," he addressed the man. "It's good that you're by her side. You have to be her eyes and ears, when necessary." Farkas nodded sternly.

"The only advice I can give is to prepare yourself. Gather knowledge, more than I can provide you. You have to know your enemy if you want to overcome him. Learn from your own experiences, and learn from others. I know it's not much, but it's all I can give you at the moment. The more you know, the better you know yourself and your foe, the more likely you will succeed."

If I had hoped to find answers here in High Hrothgar, I had been wrong. The Greybeards were the masters of the Voice - of the Way of the Voice, a way of peace and reclusion. They didn't know much more than me about the things going on in the world - not who or what caused the rising of the dragons, not what to do against it. I just knew, slaying the beasts and crawling through long forgotten tombs wouldn't be enough. I had to prepare myself while searching for answers, and I had to look for the knowledge I needed elsewhere.

A light smile played on Arngeir's face. "You're not as helpless as you seem to think, Dovahkiin. You've learned a lot already, perhaps more than you know. Come on, let's have a little test. A test of your confidence, which will also be proof of our confidence in you."

When I followed him into the main hall, the other Greybeards had already gathered. Arngeir assigned me the place in their midst and told Farkas to leave the room - friendly, for his own safety, as he said. Before I could prepare myself, the Tongues started to speak, all of them at once. The whole building quaked under the force of their joint voices, the sound penetrated through me like a blizzard, drowned me in a noise that hit like a physical force, hurled me around and forced me to my knees. Nothing in this cacophony resembled human voices any more, it was pure power - a power I had never felt before and hopefully never would feel again. But beneath the power there were words and a meaning, and although they were spoken in dragon tongue, somehow I understood them.

_"Long has the Storm Crown languished with no worthy brow to sit upon. By our breath we bestow it now to you in the name of Kyne, in the name of Shor, and in the name of Atmora of old. You are Ysmir now, the Dragon of the North. Harken to it."_

Declared Ysmir, the Dragon of the North by Kyne and Shor. Gods, what a title. Again the feeling I had had in Farengar's study right after the dragon in Whiterun overcame me - that this was ridiculous, a sick joke of the Divines. But this was High Hrothgar, and the Greybeards themselves acknowledged my power – and my destiny. No way I could simply ignore it, pretend all of this didn't happen.

Arngeir's last gift for me was a map - a map which showed some of the ancient dragon burial grounds, as far as the Greybeards knew about them. It was a great treasure, especially if his claim - or assumption - that the dragons we saw today were the same our ancestors already fought was correct. If it was, it would give us the knowledge where to find the beasts, and perhaps we would even find out who or what raised them.

I felt this was the core of the issue. We could wander through the province and slay dragons forever, as long as we didn't know what caused their resurrection it wouldn't help in the long run. I had to find out the cause of their rising, and this map was at least a beginning.

We studied it intently when we were back in Ivarstead, sitting in the inn and comfortably supplied with mead and food by Wilhelm. He had taken a liking to us since we had cleansed the barrow, and as Farkas didn't hesitate to tell him why I had been at High Hrothgar during my first extensive stay with the Greybeards, he was full of friendly, innocent awe. Now he watched us curiously as we spread the map on his counter.

"What do you have there?"

Farkas gave him a grin. "We're trying to decide which dragon to slay next." The way the innkeeper's jaw dropped made me laugh.

"You do _what_? Isn't it enough that they're everywhere, now you gotta seek them out?"

"Aye. This map shows where they... roost." Farkas' index poked a mark south of Riften. "How about this one? Lost Tongue Overlook. Not too far and so secluded that certainly no one has stumbled over it before us."

Wilhelm looked as if he'd never see us again when we left, but we found our dragon exactly where the map indicated him to be. No wonder the locations of these sites had been lost, even we who knew where to look had difficulties to find the way up into the Jerall Mountains, the snow, icy wind, bears, sabrecats and icewraiths straining my nerves. Not even Farkas' inexhaustible excited rambling about what we'd find and where to go next and what we'd do once we knew what caused all this could lighten my mood. Quite the contrary.

Even if the Greybeards hadn't been of any help in regards of substantial information, they had made more than clear that the rising of the dragons was something much more complicated, dangerous and perhaps fateful than just the sudden appearance of powerful beasts that killed people all over the province. There was more to it, and Arngeir had also made clear that it was my liability to uncover this mystery and put an end to it. Not Farkas', not the Companions', only mine.

The way he talked about this endeavour as if it was ours, as if I couldn't make a single step without him set me on edge, and when we finally found the huge creature, bathing in the sun on top of another word wall, I was ready to shout the beast to shreds. Farkas didn't even grant me that small pleasure though, charging in before I was even able to let loose a single arrow, much less a Shout. I watched him for a moment, how he slashed through the membrane of the dragon's wings to keep him grounded, the happy grin that plastered over his face, the challenging look he shot me. This was what he wanted to do, what he was good at, and at the same time it was so incredibly futile.

We had learned from the experience at Ustengrav, but the fight was still frantic and hard, leaving us with several painful bruises. But in the end we slayed him with much less difficulty than the last one.

And still my disappointment boiled over, because of course we found no hint at all about the cause of his rising. Nothing. Frustration coursed through me when I sat down on the dragon's hipbone, trying to catch my breath from the fight, the new Word and the soul that had settled in me.

Farkas hunched down in front of me, a hand on my knee. "Next time we'll find something. For sure!"

"Yeah, of course," I snapped, "we'll just appear exactly the moment the beast raises from its grave. You're naïve, Farkas." I shoved his hand roughly away, ignoring the slight look of hurt on his face, stood up and turned towards the way that would lead us down to Lake Honrich. "Come on, this was pointless. All this is pointless."

"But you got a new Shout! And a new soul!"

I turned sharply. "And you think that's what I want? You think that's a _reward_ for this useless trip?"

He made a helpless gesture. "We'll find something, Qhouri. I promise. We'll search until we know what causes all this."

I ground my teeth. "This is _my_ job, Farkas. _We_ won't do anything. _We_ will return to Whiterun now, and then _I_ will have to find someone who _knows_ something about it." And if there was no one who knew more about it than the Greybeards because I was the first Dragonborn for ages and no one had ever faced something like the rising of ancient dragons before and because the Divines had an absolutely retarded sense of humour, I'd have to do it all on my own. Hunt them and take their souls for the rest of my days. Tears of helplessness and frustration burnt in my eyes, and I turned away swiftly.

We made our way to Riften and took the carriage to Whiterun, all in uncomfortable silence. I knew I had hurt him, but I found the way he had committed himself to this insanity and, even worse, to me incredibly awkward. It was useless anyway, I knew that slaying dragons alone wouldn't be enough, and still this was what he thought we'd do until it was done. And I felt as if what had started as an offer and a promise from him had somehow turned into a demand I had to fulfil, that I had to let him participate in this quest, no matter if I wanted or not. No matter if I was comfortable with him... and somehow, I wasn't.

Not any more, at least not in the same way I had been at the beginning of our travels, when we still got to know each other, both overwhelmed by the _weird soul stuff_ we had gone through. When we thought that perhaps we could help each other with these experiences. Our fight in Morthal had only been the first rift, it had shown me a side of him that was hard to accept.

But we had made peace afterwards, and he had saved my life in the Labyrinthian. Another mystery I didn't understand, something else he couldn't help me with.

When my train of excuses and accusations had come to the point where I asked myself if he was useful enough for me, I cringed away from my own thoughts.

Because it was so much easier. Of course he was _useful_, and in so many more regards than just with his fighting skills. I simply didn't want him to commit, to dedicate himself, not to this dragon business and even less to me, and I feared that this was exactly what he was going to do. What he had already done, perhaps. I didn't want him to come so close, didn't want a _confidant_, and it scared me how I had started to think of _us_ instead of _me_ over the last weeks.

And still, as he sat on the opposite bench of the wagon, with a stonen face and avoiding my gaze, remorse overwhelmed me. He didn't deserve to be treated like that. He wasn't a puppy following me in mindless devotion – he was a warrior, one of the best in all of Skyrim, he knew the land so much better than I, and his company and advice were invaluable.

And apart from that... he was more than just a companion. I wasn't used to call someone a friend, I had never had a friend before... perhaps beside Athis, but the mer was hard to resist with his friendly, cordial way that was still distant enough to leave me room to breeze. Farkas wasn't distant, he looked through me and forced me to be honest with myself, impossible to keep him at arm's length, and still he was gentle and sincere. And he had become a friend. Someone I had learned to trust, someone with whom I had shared the perhaps most important weeks of my life. Someone who took me as I was, without judgement or resentment, who had made me feel like a Companion because he gave me the feeling that I belonged there.

That his open attachment and protectiveness suddenly felt more like a prison I couldn't escape than like a warm cloak I could rest and relax in, that was my problem, not his. I had changed, not he, and he didn't deserve to be treated like that.

"Farkas?" His head shot up, but his expression was guarded. "Would you please yell at me when I behave like an ass and not just shrug it off?"

He lowered his head. "No," he mumbled, but I saw a small grin curl his lips. "Not gonna risk that you shout back."

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay."

"No, it's not."

"Yes, it is. Told you I'd have your back as long as you need me. And when you go visit Delphine... you don't need me. You could take Vilkas along, he's much better in dealing with... difficult people."

Pun intended? Gods, how I wished he would just yell at me.

* * *

Being back in Jorrvaskr wasn't really relaxing, knowing I couldn't stay. When I spread out the map of the Greybeards on the large table and explained what it was, my siblings were enthusiastic, gathering around the parchment and allocating who would have the honour to slay which dragon with me.

Yes, we would visit all these places sooner or later, but first there were more pressing matters to attend to. The mysterious innkeeper in Riverwood was the only lead I had now. But Farkas refused outright to join me when I asked him, standing with his brother at the fire.

I felt bad that his rejection filled me with relief, and it was only soothed by his casual remark that he'd prefer to visit Morthal instead.

And Vilkas' expression was priceless.

The twins hadn't seen each other since we had left for Ustengrav, and I left them alone to catch up. Time for me to get some well deserved rest.

But next morning when I filled my belly with a bowl of porridge, delicious with its rich taste of cinnamon and honey, the light pack for the short trip to Riverwood already leaning against my chair, Vilkas dropped down beside me.

"Farkas told me about the horn and Delphine," he said curtly, "you want me to accompany you?"

"I just have to speak with her. Don't think I need a bodyguard for that." I took another spoonful and swallowed. "But thanks for the offer."

"She not only knew somehow that the Greybeards would send you to Ustengrav, she also made it through it all on her own. I wouldn't trust her any further than I can throw her."

"She's a Breton, Vilkas. I'm sure you could throw her quite far."

A grin flashed up in his face. "Not far enough." He paused for a moment. "You shouldn't go alone, Qhourian. That woman is dangerous... we know her for years, we've often enough spent our coin in that inn, and none of us ever noticed anything odd. Her disguise was perfect... you know that we have means to see behind something like that, usually."

I eyed him thoughtfully. Perhaps the idea to have a werewolf sniff out any lies and deceptions wasn't the worst.

"I could take Aela along."

He barked out a short laughter. "Aela would just kill her for the first wrong word. And she has a very concise – and narrow – opinion about what people are allowed to say to her and what not."

"Skjor?"

He gave me patient look. "Let's go, Qhourian. The sooner we go, the sooner we're over with it."

Didn't seem as if I had a choice.

Delphine wasn't thrilled about his company either, though.

Sven greeted us with a friendly nod, playing leisurely on his lute when we entered. But she narrowed her brows into a frown, leaning only outwardly relaxed onto her broom. A very unremarkable woman in her shoddy blue dress, the grey-streaked blonde hair neatly braided in her neck.

"Greetings, Vilkas," she sighed. "Your brother was here. Recently."

He grinned, but his eyes were hard. "Hello Delphine. I know, he fetched something from you. And now I bring you something in return."

Something? I arched an eyebrow at him, but the woman's head jerked to me.

"You're the one who found the note. And... you've been in Bleak Falls Barrow. With the mer." She fetched a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of her dress that I recognised at once.

I nodded, eyeing her suspiciously. "I don't believe that you went through all that trouble and didn't gather an extensive profile of me by now."

"Of course I did. But one can never be careful enough." She leant the broom against the counter, suddenly all business. "Follow me."

We followed her into a guest room that looked like all the others until she opened the back panel of a wardrobe and narrow stairs appeared behind it. Vilkas gave me an odd look, cocking an eyebrow more curiously than concerned as Delphine grabbed a lamp and descended into the darkness.

The stairs led into a cellar, filled with chests and shelves, alchemy equipment, books and a large table cluttered with parchments, some new, some yellowed and brittle enough to be ancient. The study of a scholar. Truly the last thing I expected in an ordinary inn.

Delphine leant with her back against the table after she locked the door behind us, a small grin showing on her lips. "I know, I'm pretty good at keeping my harmless innkeeper act."

"Then I suggest you tell me what's behind this act and what you want from me."

She lifted a hand. "Not so fast. The Greybeards may think that you're Dragonborn, but I didn't go through all this trouble on a whim. Before I tell you any more, I need to make sure I can trust you."

I narrowed my eyes. "What does that mean, you need to make sure you can trust me? How do I know that I can trust you?"

"If you don't trust me, you were a fool to walk in here in the first place. Even with that... escort of yours." Vilkas let out an annoyed grunt.

I gave her a forced smile. "I've been in much more hostile environments lately. I can defend myself, you know?"

An arrogant smirk curled her lips. "Not against me. Don't forget – I went through Ustengrav before you."

I wouldn't let her threaten me. "Yes, I wondered how you did that and with leaving so many of the... inhabitants alive for us. And I wonder if your skills are truly a match against real Dragonfire."

Something flickered through her eyes. Concern... perhaps fear, but it was gone as soon as it appeared and her face was emotionless again. "Enough of that. I'm part of a group that's been looking for you... well, someone like you, for a very long time. If you really are Dragonborn, that is."

Now Vilkas made a step forward. "What group are you talking about? This woman," he pointed at me, "has taken the soul of the dragons at the Watchtower, near Ustengrav and south of Riften. Only their skeletons remain to prove it. The Greybeards have acknowledged her as Dragonborn. What's there to doubt?"

"There are greater powers at work than you can imagine. The appearance of the dragons marks the turn of the eras, as it has been foreseen. I can't be careful enough, and I have to make sure that this isn't a trap of the Thalmor."

Surprised, Vilkas sucked in the air sharply. "The Thalmor?" I blurted out, perplexed by this weird... idea. Accusation. Whatever it was. I didn't know much about the Aldmeri Dominion, only that it held the Empire in its grip since the war thirty years ago and that their repressions were the reason why Ulfric Stormcloak had shouted the High King to death and started his rebellion. The idea that I was allied with them... it was far-fetched, at least.

The woman pushed herself off and went around the table to a shelf in the back of the room. The way she held herself suddenly, shoulders squared, her steps barely making a sound... despite her common attire, I knew suddenly that she wasn't an innkeeper any more. That she had changed into her true identity, whatever it was. And that I didn't trust her.

She turned back to us. "Yes, the Thalmor. Their spies are everywhere." She regarded me pensively. "I'm not your enemy, you already got the horn back. I'm actually trying to help you. I just need you to hear me out."

Vilkas tensed beside me. "It is not your place to make demands, Delphine," he spat out, losing his patience with the woman. I felt the same, the way how she beat around the bush was annoying and suspicious. "You went out of your way to get to her, it seems you need her much more than she needs you."

She turned to him with equal aggression. "The arrogance of the Companions, always meddling with things they don't understand and without regard for the greater picture. Just like the Greybeards, and equally predictable."

I clenched my teeth in anger. "I'm a Companion too, Delphine. Tell me what you want, now."

She balled her hands into whiteknuckled fists, but her face twisted into an forced smile. "It doesn't matter what you are except that you are Dragonborn. And you will have opportunity to prove it soon enough. All that matters is that you're _not_ a spy of the Thalmor. That is what I have to make sure first and foremost."

I didn't understand her. I agreed with Vilkas that she was dangerous, but this paranoia she displayed was... as disconcerting as ridiculous.

But Vilkas had obviously enough. His voice was dangerously low, his hand lingering on the hilt of his dagger. "I don't know what you're getting at, Delphine. But are you aware that you're insulting the Dragonborn and the Companions in the same breath? You dare to threaten her? You dare to assume she's a thrall of the Thalmor? You know exactly that we don't deal in politics, and still you dare to doubt not only her power, but also her honour and ours?"

She met his flaring gaze with unmoved calm. "You have no idea what you're talking about, Vilkas. You have no idea what it means to have enemies that have hunted you for ages." She turned her attention to me, her face set in determination. "I suspect that the Thalmor have something to do with the rising of the dragons. And if I'm right, then the Gods help us."

I didn't get opportunity to reply. Vilkas propped his palms on the table and leant forwards, baring his teeth in a threatening snarl. "The Thalmor! The bloody elves are a pain in the behind, but to believe that they're behind _this_... and to put her in line with them... that's _insane_, and we don't have to put up with this nonsense. If you need the Dragonborn, you know where to find her." He turned on his heels and stormed up the stairs.

Great. All I wanted were some answers. And all I got was a paranoid innkeeper using her real or imagined secrets to build up an annoying aura of mystery, a shield-brother who saw _his_ honour endangered and both of them going at each other's throats. Vilkas was a fool to run off like that, before she had even answered why she had stolen the horn in the first place. But the way the woman behaved, she was probably indeed a dead end. The Thalmor! In this he was right, what a complete and utter nonsense.

I rubbed my palm tiredly over my face and turned to leave as well. But I hadn't even reached the stairs when I heard her quiet voice behind me.

"You stay." Not a question, but an order.

Slowly I turned around. Delphine still stood at the opposite wall, tense, ready to leap like a cornered predator, a dagger dangling between her fingers. She held it loosely at the tip, and it would take only a single flick of her wrist to lodge it neatly into my chest.

"_Fus_," I said and left, the dull sound of her head hitting the shelf behind her coaxing a grin on my face. I could get used to this.

Vilkas waited for me outside, and he rushed down the road towards the bridge that led out of the village as soon as I left the inn, his fast, blundering stride revealing his anger. At first I rushed after him, but when he didn't slow down and didn't have a single word to say, I stopped on the bridge and dropped down on the parapet, burying my forehead in my palms. I wouldn't run after him till Whiterun. What a complete, utter debacle.

But his steps came back. "What's the matter?" he barked.

"This was a _disaster_, Vilkas." I was louder than necessary, but Gods, I was frustrated.

"Of course it was. She insulted and threatened you. All of us!"

"Yes, but that's not the point!"

He stared down on me as if I was retarded. "Did you listen to her, Qhourian? She claimed the dragons are a work of the Thalmor and that you're their lackey! What in Oblivion can be the point in that!"

"She didn't claim. She simply assumed."

"As if that mattered. Whatever obscure group she belongs to, she's obviously completely oblivious to what's going on here. You're not Talos or Martin Septim, it's not your job to rule or save an Empire. Your job is the dragon plague, something _they_ never had to deal with. She has no idea what she's talking about if she seriously thinks the Thalmor have anything to do with it. And to think that you are allied with them..." He hit his forehead with his palm.

Now I jumped up and stormed down the bridge. He kept easily pace, which made it easier to yell at him. "You don't get it, do you? I have no idea either! I have no idea what to do now with this damned dragon plague! And our bloody honour doesn't help with that one bit!"

His face twisted in fury, with me now instead with Delphine. "How can you say that! Who if not the Companions are willing to help you? Who dragged you through all this so far? What do you think why I am here with you?"

I exploded. "_You_ are here because you can't bear not to be involved, and as soon as something doesn't go as you want you blow up and stomp out like an angry bull!"

"So you would have preferred to have yourself – and us! - drawn into a war against the Dominion?"

I clenched my fists. "Gods, Vilkas, don't be so melodramatic. I just need some answers, now that even the Greybeards sent me away! Yes, she insulted us and perhaps she is insane. But perhaps she also knows something, anything, and I didn't get this information because you had to force her onto the defensive!"

"She wouldn't have been so defensive if she had honest intentions with you."

"We don't know what her intentions are! All I know is that I'm stuck!"

He gnashed his teeth audibly. "This woman wants to use you, Qhourian. Perhaps not for a war, but for some very weird personal plot of hers. She isn't interested in helping you, trust me. And get used to many more people trying to rope you in for their purposes. Many people will try to make use of the Dragonborn. You better be careful not to become their toy."

All of a sudden my anger subsided. I was really naïve. I thought everybody was as terrified of the dragons as I. That people could be so ruthless to use this threat and the appearance of a Dragonborn for their own agenda – of course they would, I just hadn't considered it so far.

But I wouldn't be used. Never again.

It was quiet between us for the rest of the way. Vilkas knew exactly that he had given me plenty of food for thought, and he left me alone.


	16. Like a Butterfly

"Like this." Vilkas' voice was flat and emotionless as he bent over the alchemy table. "Be careful not to damage it." He held the abdomen of the insect between index and thumb of his left hand, pressed its head with the tip of a needle against the soft wooden board and fixated it with a swift stab through the thorax, then pulled his hands away.

"Wait until it stops twitching and flapping." He watched calmly how the wingbeat of the dying butterfly became slower and more erratic. "It's important that it can move its wings freely, or it will hurt itself and lose the scales." He turned to me, his gaze piercing. "What we're after... they're scales. Just like the dragon's. Did you know that?"

I shook my head, watching the careful, controlled motions of his hands with a morbid fascination. They were gentle, nearly tender, yet still so cruel. Of course I didn't know it.

He took a tweeter and removed the head of the animal with a swift twist, a small drop of a translucent liquid oozing from the body. "Now it's dead. We don't want it to suffer, do we?" That sly grin of him... as if he meant it. Next he showed me how to remove the wings from the body, carefully gripping them at the veins, the delicate tool looking far too fragile in his fingers. Using a tiny bone spatula, he scraped the glittering, colourful dust from their surface that held the alchemical properties.

He gave me a lopsided smirk, displaying the same cold inquisitiveness he had shown when he watched the animal die its slow death. I felt like the butterfly in front of me when he handed me the small tool. Or like a child, begging for approval. "Your turn."

I clenched my teeth, not so sure any more if my request to learn at least the basics of processing ingredients and mixing potions was so smart. Or if it was smart to ask Vilkas. He had only scowled when I had asked him if the alchemy table in his room was only for decoration or if he actually knew how to use it.

Of course he knew, the butterfly his first lesson. And after I stored the pinch of dust I had abraded from the wings into a small phial, we spent hours making the most basic healing potions together, from wheat and the blue mountain flowers that grew everywhere around Whiterun. He taught me how to extract the sap and how to control the strength of the potion by adjusting the amount of water, the heat of the calcinator and the different mixtures. He taught me the basics of the craft with the same patience and sensitivity he had shown dissecting the butterfly.

This was Vilkas. His erratic attitude drove me crazy. And he fascinated me, because he forced me to overstep my limits.

After the failed trip to Riverwood I threw myself into a flurry of activity. For the first time I fulfilled regular contracts for the Companions, travelled back and forth through Skyrim and got to know my homeland, chased criminals, gathered long-lost family heirlooms from the undead clasp of draugr or cleared bandit and animal dens.

And finally I had opportunity to get to know my shield-siblings in their natural habitat – not that the mead hall wasn't their natural habitat, but travelling around and fighting for the sake of others, that was what they did for a living. And to save each other's life and tend to each other's wounds, to share watches under the endless vastness of Skyrim's sky or to sit out a blizzard in a small cave together, freezing and bored, all this formed bonds I had never known before. Working, training and celebrating together let me feel more and more like a real part of this group.

And every time we had the chance, we visited one of marks on the Greybeard's map. They never disappointed insofar as we always found a dragon. We slayed them with growing ease, the Companions becoming slowly but surely the army of dragonslayers I had dreamt of. And more often than not I also found a wordwall in the vicinity, just like at Lost Tongue Overlook.

Slaying dragons, taking their souls and expanding my vocabulary became something like routine. And I never found so much as a hint at what caused their rising.

I took every job I could get, eager to carry my share of the workload resting on the Companions, the ledgers always full while the war occupied many of the regular forces. I worked myself out, barely slept any more, because it was the only thing that made me feel useful. Because slaying dragons, learning new Shouts... in the end, it would get me nowhere, and I knew it. And with every new word and every new soul settling in me, my frustration with myself and the futility of everything I did grew.

Additionally, when I wasn't travelling criss-cross through the country, I followed the Greybeards advice and _learned_ – everything and at once, and as I didn't know where to start, I took what was available, soaking in unsorted knowledge like a sponge.

I read through every single book available in Jorrvaskr, history and lore, research papers, bestiaries and journals, travel guides and maps. I pestered Farengar with questions, spent hours with him in his cosy little study. To his credit, he was more than patient with me, apparently delighted to have found someone who shared his interest in the dragon issues and the vast knowledge he had accumulated. I even spent a couple of evenings with Heimskr to learn everything about Talos he could tell me. It took some persuasion to lead his thoughts away from the sermon he preached day in day out to the citizens of Whiterun, but when he realised that my interest was less theological than historical, he proved to be astonishingly knowledgeable about my predecessor.

But apart from that, strangely it was Vilkas who took me under his wings during these weeks. He not only took care of my weapon training, he also pressed me forwards, challenged me with his knowledge, brought up always new questions I didn't have the answers to.

Perhaps it was a bit of remorse because of the disastrous meeting with Delphine, perhaps pity, perhaps my hunger for knowledge just gave him opportunity to exhibit his superiority, but he occupied my time whenever I was in Jorrvaskr. He always found new ways to expose how little I knew – and to wake my interest.

But his room had also become my refuge, the only place where I found the quiet to read and concentrate. He let me use his desk, and the Greybeard's map had found a place on the inner side of his door. We spent many hours together, discussing the various matters I read about - which meant usually that I asked questions and he tried to answer them.

I was grateful for his generosity and excited about his vast knowledge. And still, the time I spent with him always left me even more restless, more frustrated... and unsettled by his personality.

We had become acquainted with each other during those weeks, but that didn't mean that we had become close. It was impossible to be close to Vilkas, not in the same way I had come close to all the other Companions in the meantime – or to his brother. I got to know my siblings, not only the raw facts, but their quirks and whims, aversions and preferences. Some were adorable, others hard to endure – Aela's snarky remarks, Ria's inexhaustible energy, Torvar's foul mood when he was sober _and_ bored, Skjor's often aloof behaviour – but we got used to each other, and we grew together.

Vilkas had his quirks and tempers too, always had an edge to him, a tension like a predator ready to strike and a carefully hidden scorn. But he controlled himself tightly, seldom showed more than an irritated scowl or deadpan indifference, although it cost him – I spent enough time with him to notice the dark rings under his eyes and weary lines in his face, sometimes worse, sometimes better but always there. Occasionally, in rare moments when he thought himself unobserved, his face dissolved into a tiredness that was more than the result of a night of bad sleep, full of despair... and hopelessness. And sometimes, I saw Farkas' gaze linger on his brother, full of concern. But it never took more than a second and his control was back, his jaw set in his usual cold, indifferent arrogance.

He was as ruthless to himself as he was cold to others. And it wasn't my place to ask what set him on edge like that.

Because I never knew what to expect from him. He was patient, caring and cruel at the same time, challenging me with my shortcomings, pinning my ignorance, often leaving me embarrassed and humiliated. And then he took the time to talk things through, to teach me, as if it was his personal ambition that I became a scholar like himself. His sharp, often cynical wit could be hilariously funny, but it could equally fast slip into merciless humiliation when he found a weakness.

But the peace we had made with each other shortly before my initiation was brittle, and it became more obvious how fragile it was the more time we spent with each other. For the longest time I thought it was just him, that it wasn't personal how he treated me, seeing how he whipped the other whelps through his training. I thought he was just difficult and that it was best to ignore his moods as best I could. I could learn from him, after all, even if it wasn't a fun way to learn.

But it was personal. And I didn't realise it until it was too late.

I loved the early morning in the training yard, especially in this time of year when the sun rose late, the only light coming from the flickering torches. When I could be certain to be alone and take my time, aim every shot carefully until the straw target was riddled with arrows, slowly feeling my body warm up despite the freezing cold before sunrise. When the sleepy dizziness finally vanished from eyes, muscles and brain, I started to train in earnest with exercising motions, attacks, thrusts and parades against the dummies or simply against my own shadow. I felt so alive in these hours, when I exhausted myself even before the first bite of the day, and I only stopped when the sweat froze in my damp hair, my muscles ached from the same movements over and over again and all motions began to flow together like a dance, guided more by instinct than by conscience or thought.

"It hurts to watch you." The dark voice came from the patio, Vilkas leaning against a wooden pillar, arms crossed over his chest. He didn't wear his armour, not even a cloak, but his appearance was immaculate, his hair combed back behind his ears and his warpaint fresh. I frowned at the disturbance, wondered how long he had watched me already, but my chagrin only caused a jovial smirk. Slowly I lowered mace and shield. He made it a habit to turn up when I wanted to see him least. When I didn't want to see anyone.

"Then don't look, Vilkas. Nobody forces you to be out here at this ungodly hour."

"Oh yes, your incompetence does. I'm not gonna let a shield-sister kill herself because nobody bothers to show her how to do it right. Here. Try that. Against me." He tossed me a sword from the rack with the training weapons. "You need something effective. Something that works against dragons."

Oh, it seemed he actually paid attention when we sat together in the evenings, recounting our dragon fights, even when he just seemed to brood into his mead. I knew my mace wasn't the ideal weapon against iron-hard scales and leathery skin, learned it painfully during an encounter when the beast had bucked me off its neck, Torvar and I only coming out relatively unharmed because he rammed the tip of his greatsword through the dragon's throat before he could close his jaws around my shield-brother.

I had been mostly useless in that situation, my weapon not even able to slash through the dragon's wings. But it was still the one I felt most comfortable with when I couldn't avoid to get into close combat. Obviously, for Vilkas comfort was no reason to choose a weapon. Efficiency was, though.

What followed wasn't a spar, it was a lecture in incapability. He attacked without further warning, without giving me a second to position myself, and disarmed me with his first strike, a cold, satisfied grin on his lips. Over and over again the unaccustomed weapon flew from my aching fingers, my hands, arms, shoulders and every other body part he was able to hit soon bruised from blows with the flat side of his own huge sword. In contrast he barely seemed to move at all, wasted no movement as he parried, blocked or simply evaded my meagre attempts to stab him.

He was relentless in his drill, forced my aching limbs into positions I wasn't used to, showed and practised with me how to use the sharp blade and the tip of the sword to pierce and cut instead just to smash something with a blunt head.

But this was more than training. Even if he was right, even if I would profit from this treatment in the end, even if I told myself that I should be thankful that the Master-of-Arms of the Companions himself took the effort to teach me... for him, it was most of all another way to demonstrate his superiority.

He hurt me deliberately, and I had gone through enough spars to know that he hurt me much more than necessary, hitting the same spots over and over again. I was a lousy sword fighter, we both knew it, but I took his barked commands and snarky comments and didn't give him the satisfaction to complain, clenched my teeth and stayed. But he only became more unrelenting and merciless the longer I put up with his treatment, playing his game with me, taunting me to give up, the smug smirk on his face slowly making way for something different... something darker and more cruel. As if he lost his patience. As if he grew tired of this mockery of a lesson.

He wanted to force me into submission.

And he could, because he was the Master-of-Arms and I was only a whelp. My dragon soul screamed in shame and fury, but it didn't help me one bit when a especially powerful hit that crashed flat on my shoulder made me cry out, tears springing to my eyes. It felt as if he had broken my collarbone, my own weapon falling from my suddenly numb fingers with a dull clank, for the umpteenth time. When I bowed down tiredly to pick it up, my back aching, a forceful blow to the back of my thighs let me fall to my knees. I hadn't even recognised that Vilkas suddenly stood behind me.

He pressed the sharp side of his sword into my side as he bent over me, the free forearm coming around my neck and constricting my throat, his knees pressing painfully into my kidneys. A single false motion, and the blade would slice through the leather of my armour. Absentmindedly I noticed that the sun had risen, golden light streaming over the city. We had spent hours out here.

"Too slow and too weak," he hissed into my ear, "where's the dragon now, _Dragonborn?_" His breath was warm even on my hot, sweaty face.

I couldn't shout, I couldn't even breathe. And even if I could, I wouldn't have dared to. But I could try to ram my elbow into his thigh. He didn't even flinch, only the pressure on my throat became firmer. Now his voice was a nearly gentle whisper. "You'd be _nothing_ without the Companions, Qhourian. And without us, you will fail. Never forget that."

This wasn't just smug satisfaction about my failure any more. There were disgust, loathing, a barely tamed fury... and hatred. And with sudden clarity I knew that the brittle peace between Vilkas and me was only a truce, and that it would not hold.

And I knew that he was right.

Only when he finally released me, sheathed his own sword and I dropped into the dust of the training yard, gasping for breath, drenched in sweat and with trembling muscles, I noticed that we were watched - Farkas leant on a pillar, absently chewing on a loaf of dry bread, his eyes full of pity… and respect.

"Don't look like an oaf, brother," Vilkas spoke loud enough to be certain I overheard him as he crossed the patio, "you know, that would have been your job. What did you _do_ all the time you spent together?" His grin was bleak and cheerless.

Farkas ignored him though, waited until his brother had vanished inside the hall and then came over, hunched down in front of me.

"You okay?" he asked roughly. I clenched my teeth, forced down the tears that gathered in my eyes. No, I was not, and I didn't answer his rhetorical question, resting my forehead tiredly on my knees. Everything hurt, and Vilkas' sudden unveiled hostility caused a coil of dread in my stomach. I was no match for him... and I couldn't afford to fight. Not here, not at home. I needed my strength for other things.

Farkas knew all this. I knew – and Vilkas knew certainly as well – that he had heard every word. When I felt his hand on my shoulder, warm and steady, I couldn't resist to lean into the touch. If he pulled away, I'd just topple to the side. But he wouldn't.

"Why does he hate me, Farkas?" I asked helplessly. "I thought..."

His grip became firmer. "He doesn't. He's just... struggling."

"With me?"

"No. Not with you." He paused for a moment. "Not mainly, at least."

"But he's right," I whispered. "It's so useless. Everything I do is so useless."

His voice was deep and soothing. "Don't believe him, Qhouri. In this, Vilkas is wrong. You're strong... you will find something, and then you'll know how to go on." Gods, he was so damned naïve. And so damned confident.

How I missed that confidence around me. How I missed the feeling that someone believed in me.

I lifted my eyes to his face, too tired and confused to ponder my words. "I miss you, Farkas." He would understand. He always did.

He looked at me from deep, dark eyes, his fingertips stroking over my cheek and tugging a sweaty braid behind my ear. "I miss you too, sister," he said quietly. "I miss our travels. But you don't need me any more to delve through old tombs. And..."

I lowered my gaze as he didn't speak on. He was right, I didn't need him any more to slaughter draugr or dragons. I needed him for other things though, and perhaps they were even more important than just his sword arm. For the short breaks his company gave me, to relax and recover every time his brother had found another way to run me down, in this lighthearted, undemanding, nearly instinctive understanding between us. After we had returned from Riften and gained some distance, I could admit to myself how much I missed him. He didn't make any demands... and he was the only one I could show my fears and frustrations, because he knew them anyway.

But we had both... other obligations. We had barely seen each other during the last weeks, and not only because I was so busy. He was seldom in Jorrvaskr as well, either out on jobs or spending his time in Morthal. I knew he had finally told the Circle about his daughters and that they had taken it surprisingly well. He had told me about that meeting full of relief, and the joy beamed from his eyes when he talked about the girls, how he slowly settled into his role as their father, how they got to know each other and they accepted him, how he arranged this life with Jonna in some kind of companionable routine.

He was happy... and I was happy for him. And still I missed him, as selfish as it was.

"Farkas!" The harsh shout broke the silence between us. Vilkas stood at the door, washed and changed. "I need you. Now."

A touch of anger moved over his face as he rocked back and rose. But he held out a hand to help me up, and I let him thankfully pull me to my feet. For a moment, he buried my hand between his palms. "My promise holds, sister," he said lowly, giving me a gentle smile. And then he turned and went over to his brother who watched us with unconcealed scorn.

* * *

It was an easy job, not really worthy of the Companions, but Athis and I took it nonetheless, if only to escape Jorrvaskr. The Jarl of Riften had charged us to catch a criminal who was rumoured to have escaped towards Whiterun Hold. The man was the owner of a sawmill, a lonely small settlement at the shores of lake Honrich, and he was sentenced to death for killing one of his workmen he suspected to spend too much time with his wife.

Of course we went there first for our investigation and found his wife inside the house, a shy, frightened, intimidated woman. But when we asked our questions about the whereabouts of her husband, she was much more nervous than necessary, wrangling her hands and clenching her fists into her apron, cold sweat on her forehead.

Athis gave me a wary look, then his gaze wandered to the small rug the woman stood on. It hid a trapdoor, the outlines clearly visible under the threadbare fabric. The woman paled when I pushed her to the side and Athis pulled it open.

The miller cowered in the corner of a damp, dark hole usually used to store wine and vegetables, his hand clenched around the neck of a broken bottle. He blinked frantically when the light streaming in through the opening blinded him. How incredibly stupid to hide in his own house.

He was too frightened to resist though when I climbed down the rickety ladder with my weapon drawn, bound his hands behind his back and shoved him towards the exit. We delivered him to the guards at the gate of Riften without him muttering so much as a word, glad to be rid of him.

And when we stood in the throne room of Mistveil Keep and Jarl Laila's steward counted our payment into a purse, the dragon came over the city.

Riften was a reeking, rotten hole, corrupt to the core – the guards even tried to make us pay a _travellers tax_ after we had delivered our prisoner to them -, full of debris, the human kind sneaking through the shadows, the regular kind piled up in every corner and alley, its stench mingling with the seedy smell of the oily shimmering canal leading through the centre.

And it was nearly entirely built of wood.

The sight when we left the keep in a hurry after a guard had yelled his warning through the room was incredible. It was chaos and hectic, yelling and screaming and people running around in frantic panic beneath the gigantic beast that hovered directly over the market place, the whiff from the slowly flapping wings blowing dry leaves and rubble through the streets. Only very few people seemed to keep a clear head, and none of them was in uniform. I saw a man with fiery red hair and a fine, elegant coat with two children on his hips, yelling at the old hag who tried to shut the door of the orphanage in front of his nose until he shoved it open violently and brought the kids inside. And the Argonian keeper of the inn shooed the merchants and customers from the market place into her establishment. I hoped she had a cellar where they could hide.

A Nordic woman who didn't leave her stall in time, gathering the cheap, unsorted armour and weapons she sold was hit by the fiery blast of the beast. She fell with flailing arms and a scream backwards into the canal. We didn't have time to watch if she surfaced again.

Where in Oblivion was the godsdamned housecarl to bring some order into this chaos?

Athis and I looked at each other, nodded at each other and I darted down the stairs to the market place with him on my heels, already gathering my breath.

No matter how dangerous a flying, firespitting dragon was and how much easier he was to fight when grounded – most of all, we had to prevent now that he landed. Not here, not on these wooden gangways or on a roof and out of reach, between all these stalls and huts and houses that would incinerate like tinder with a single hit of his breath. And the few guards that stood around and fired arrows at him had obviously no idea what they were doing. They even managed to miss him a couple of times.

_"FUS!"_

Now I had at least his attention, the cold, indifferent gaze of the dragon turning immediately to me as he struggled with a roar to hold his balance. I sent an arrow towards his throat, Athis like my shadow doing the same, and ran towards the southern gate.

"Open!" I yelled as the guards didn't lift a finger to let me out, with the beast on my heels.

"The gate is closed," one of them said stoically. I couldn't believe it. Perhaps because we didn't pay the travellers tax. But I didn't have time to argue, the dragon now turning his attention towards the orphanage.

_"FUS RO DAH!"_

It was frail and ramshackle anyway, the wings of the gate splintering in its hinges. I ran outside and knew from the distinctive sound of a dragon sucking in the air for his next shout that he followed me. At least I wasn't alone with the beast, Athis, some guards and a few brave men and women coming after me. A quick glance around revealed that some of them were clad in matching armour, dark, tight leather that blended in with the shadows. The guards held a careful distance to them.

But my problem now was the dragon, and after I had to shred to damned gate to pieces, my throat hurt like fire, I didn't have the breath for another shout and had to rely on my bow. Riddling him with arrows was no foolproof way to kill a dragon though and usually only served to make him angry. And we were still far too near the city.

And then, after an especially nasty shot from Athis, the arrow getting stuck in his throat and blood dropping like crimson tears from the wound, the dragon did what I had so far never seen one of them do – he rose too high for us to reach him and veered off, in a straight line towards the mountains in the south-east.

At least the city was safe... for the moment.

I still catched my breath when a Nord in shining golden armour approached us – elven armour, the same the Thalmor warriors patrolling the land wore. Strange.

"You didn't kill it," he said with a scowl, "it will come back."

His blatant accusation rendered me speechless for a moment, then I felt my face heat in anger.

"Ah, Unmid. How nice to see you." Athis' voice was calm. He bent over to me and whispered into my ear, "that's Unmid Snow-Shod, the Jarl's housecarl." Ah, there he was at last. He didn't even carry a bow and deigned Athis only with a curt nod, keeping his gaze on me.

I narrowed my brows in frustration. "I would have been easier if the guards had let me out when I told them to open the gate."

"They just followed my orders. And now the gates are destroyed and the dragon is gone. What do you plan to do about that?"

This was preposterous. "_I_ do not plan to do anything about it, Sir," I sneered. "How about you adjust your orders to include some common sense? Would you have preferred to have the dragon land in the middle of your market?"

He puffed himself up even more, not at all impressed by the notion. "If he had stayed, he would be dead by now. But you had to chase him away, hence the Jarl orders you hereby to track him down and kill him. You're Dragonborn, after all. He probably fled to Forelhost."

I took a step backwards, my hand on the hilt of my mace. But before I could give him an appropriate answer, Athis thankfully chimed in, stepping in front of me, his teeth bared in a malicious smirk.

"This must be a misunderstanding, Unmid. Or a mistake on your side. You know, you don't order the Dragonborn around. _No one_ orders the Dragonborn around, not even your Jarl. You can ask her politely to save your rotten city from this beast that will, and in this you're right, certainly come back. A proper reward for her service is of course taken for granted. Or you can assign the job to the Companions, of course for our regular fee. Or you send your own troops. Your choice."

Gods, how I loved this mer. The man, at least a head larger than Athis, was dumbstruck for a moment, his Adam's apple silently bobbing up and down as he tried to find an answer.

"You're both Companions? You're Dragonborn _and_ Companion?" he finally pressed out.

"Yes. We just brought back a murderer who fled from your jail. Another indication of the state of your security."

Anger about my insolence flared up in his face, but then he pulled himself together, his gaze flitting back to the city and the remains of the gate. He squared his shoulders. "I hereby assign the slaying of the dragon threatening the safety of Riften to the Companions of Whiterun," he said stiffly. At least he was a man of fast decisions – and had the authority to make them.

Athis gave him a beaming smile. "Thank you, Sir. It will be done. What is this Forelhost you mentioned?"

Now he was all business. "An old Nordic fortress not far south-east. It's ancient, rumours are that it was one of the last refuges of the Dragon Cult. A group of Stormcloak soldiers went up there recently, they were searching for some artefact to help the war. Of course we supplied them with everything we could, but perhaps they also roused the dragon."

It was really not far, and we were immediately on our way. Athis was of astonishingly good mood when we climbed the steep path towards the fortress, humming a simple tune.

"Hey," I nudged him, "what _is_ our regular fee for slaying dragons?"

He grinned boyishly. "No idea, this is the first time we're contracted officially. Usually the Circle decides things like that... but I guess we'll have to improvise this time, do we?"

It wouldn't come cheap, that much was clear.

We found the Stormcloak patrol Unmid had mentioned at the entrance to the fortress – or rather the remains of it, a single soldier clad in the distinctive Stormcloak officer gear, reinforced leather with a blue sash and a rather silly looking bear helmet. He cowered behind the crumbling remains of a wall, trying to hide from the dragon that loomed on top of a huge stone arch above the gate. A few bodies lay around, but they were burnt so crisp that it was impossible to discern what they had been before their demise. But he joined into the fight at once after I staggered the creature with my Shout, letting loose a barrage of lightning and fire that helped tremendously to bring the beast down.

Another soul for my collection.

I eyed the man curiously while Athis rummaged through the skeleton for bones and scales. He was a mer – an Altmer, which struck me immediately as strange. And he wore the distinctive, arrogant scowl that was so characteristic for his kind. Only briefly had I seen his face lit up in surprise when the soul entered my body.

"Good," he nodded stiffly, "I'm Captain Valmir. After I lost my men, I need you to accompany me into this ruin and retrieve an artefact for Ulfric Stormcloak." The disgust on his face while speaking these words was... weird. And what was it with all these guys today who thought they could order me around?

I gave him a sweet smile. "Well met, Captain Valmir. Please help me out... since when do you have authority over the Companions of Whiterun? Or over anyone who isn't a Stormcloak? You must have taken over... during the last 24 hours, and I hope you'll excuse my ignorance over this unexpected development."

His face crunched in anger, orange eyes flaring down on me. "I don't," he said curtly. "I need someone able to deal with undead and worse. You are, obviously. Your reward will be generous."

I pinched the back of my nose, seemingly deep in thought. "You know, Captain..." I said friendly, "you could just ask. Politely. Not everybody is bribable. And we just earned a generous enough reward to keep us settled for today." I beckoned towards the remains of the dragon.

"You would have never taken him down without me! You owe me..."

"I owe you nothing. I've slain already more dragons than you have probably ever seen, _Sir_."

He narrowed his eyes threateningly. "I could force you. I have the Jarl of Riften behind me."

"_She_ owes me too. But you can try, of course."

Something about this mer was strange. That he was a mer, and an Altmer at that was strange, that he fought with magic even stranger. Everybody knew about Ulfric Stormcloaks racism and his hatred against magic, much worse than the usual discomfort of the Nords in general. And now, a High Elf throwing fireballs posing not only as a simple soldier, but as an officer of the rebel's army, searching for something important and probably powerful in a ruin that was somehow connected to the Dragon Cult of old?

Something about all this was _very_ strange. I wanted to get behind it, my curiosity woken. The members of the Dragon Cult were the human rulers over mankind under the dragon's reign after all, and they were said to have been granted terrible powers by their overlords. Long gone, long forgotten, nearly as long as the dragons themselves. But if this was indeed their last bastion, perhaps we'd find something interesting.

On the other hand, I couldn't afford to help a Stormcloak. The Companions didn't take sides in this war. We were neutral, and I wouldn't breach this policy.

And something told me that even if this man wasn't honest, he needed us desperately.

After a brief, whispered counsel with Athis, we decided to give it a go and deal with the political implications when it came to it. If it came to it. Athis was at least as suspicious about the mer as I.

I turned back to the Captain. "We will help you, under a couple of conditions."

He barely withheld his anger. "And what would those be?"

"First, we get the supplies that were meant for your men. We haven't planned for such a lengthy expedition. And second, you stay behind and wait here for us. We're used to work in a team, a third would only be a nuisance."

He complied with gnashing teeth, and while we filled our bundles with the rations he had stored away, he filled us in with what he knew about the complex. That it was the stronghold where the Dragon Cult tried to regroup after its strength was broken by the humans rebelling against their terror. That King Herrald besieged them in the first Era and that most of the bastion was inaccessible today due to a collapse that must have happened during this siege. And that our job now was to find a way inside and to retrieve the staff of the Cultist's leader, one of the powerful priests who led his remaining forces here.

We had barely entered the eerily silent ruins when Athis turned towards a small room and dropped his pack.

"Now we can rest," he said with a grin, already chewing on an apple.

"You wanna rest? Now? Here?"

"Qhouri... we ran through the Rift, catched a murderer, fought off a dragon, climbed this bloody mountain and killed it in the end, all in the last fourteen hours. Not to speak of the morons we had to deal with. And those guys in there," he pointed towards the gate that led deeper into the ruins, "have waited for us since the first Era. I'm sure they won't mind a few more hours."

I flashed him a slightly bemused smile, certain that he could have easily started the exploration of this place at once if he wanted. But a rest was fine, and the strange mer outside could easily wait a few hours longer for his staff as well.


	17. Forelhost

That Captain Valmir and his barely veiled scam still ran in circles through my mind. If he was really a Stormcloak, we'd have a problem. And we'd have a problem too if he was not. I wondered why he made me so suspicious, why I instinctively didn't believe that he was what he claimed to be. If it was because he was an Altmer, or because of this haughty arrogance he didn't even bother to hide.

I wondered if an attitude like that was an inherent Altmerish quality, just like that housecarl in Riften had developed his very own peculiarly Nordic variety of insufferableness.

Because of course they weren't all like him, other mer I knew were different. Loreius, a farmer not far from Whiterun, was married to an Altmer, and although she was an exotic sight in her tall slenderness, with this golden skin and bright orange eyes when she came to Whiterun to sell her produce, she wasn't treated differently from all the other merchants. Mer of all kinds lived in Whiterun, and they just belonged to the community.

And one of them just threw little crumbs of dry bread at me. They slipped behind the collar of my armour and tickled.

No way this guy was older than _twelve_.

"What are you brooding about?" In the light of a single torch, Athis' face only consisted of sharp angles and deep shadows, accentuated by his white warpaint and the deep red shimmer of his eyes. It was familiar, and still it was so incredibly alien.

We sat leaning on opposite walls, chewing on a few dry biscuits. I propped my elbow on my knee and my chin in my palm. "May I ask you something, Athis?"

"Of course." He sounded slightly puzzled.

"I wanna know... why this guy out there is such an ass and you are not. I mean... you're both mer. I mean..." my voice trailed off. This wasn't at all what I wanted to know. It was a silly question.

He seemed slightly puzzled. "Should I be more like him, or he more like me? And why?"

I shook my head. "Forget it. It was..." I wasn't interested at all in Captain Valmir, I realised. I was interested in that guy across of me. "Why are you a Companion, Athis?" I blurted out. "I mean... Ysgramor waged war against your kind. Wuuthrad was an elfslayer. And... we're something completely Nordic. How do you fit in there?"

He gave me a thoughtful, slightly amused look. "You humans and your addiction with history." He chuckled. "Do you know how old I am, Qhouri?"

I shook my head. Of course I had thought about it, but I had never dared to ask.

"Guess."

I could just take a number. Any number. I knew elves could get ancient, but Athis... sometimes, he behaved as if he was barely grown-up, and then he revealed a wisdom that made me feel as if I had learned and experienced nothing so far. "Hundred?"

His lips quirked. "Wrong, but better than many others. Some people estimate me somewhere in my 30s. Often younger than Vilkas and Farkas, certainly younger than Kodlak or Vignar."

"But you aren't."

"No, I'm not. I'm 297 this winter. When I was a lad of 100, the Oblivion crisis was barely over and my homeland was destroyed by a falling moon. And I'm not old, for my kind. There are mer - Dunmer - who have lived thousands of years."

He took in my bewilderment with an amused smile. Such a lifespan... how was it possible to live through it? What had he seen and experienced? How many people had he seen die? And how could it be that he appeared so normal - so _mortal_?

"Does it matter, Qhouri?"

I gave him a feeble smile. "I... don't know. I mean... I knew you were older than me. Probably older than all of us. But... 297. Wow."

"No, it doesn't matter," he said sternly. "It only means that I've seen a lot more than you during my life. That I remember things you have to read about. And it means that I've learned to adapt to the changes in the world. It's what we do. We go with the tide of times, and we see how the world changes. But in the end, that's what we all have to do, especially in times like this."

"But... isn't that hard? To see eras end and everything turned upside down? To see people age and die? Wouldn't it be easier if you were amongst your own kind?"

He folded his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. "Yes, perhaps it would be. I'd like to go to Solstheim one day. Or perhaps, one day, I can even return to Vvardenfell." He chuckled lowly, but his voice sounded wistful and nostalgic when he spoke on. "You know... nearly thirty years ago, I thought to join the Companions would be a challenge, after the war and the mess the Dominion had left behind. I wanted a challenge, I wanted to start over after decades of travelling and fighting for causes that weren't my own. But it wasn't. Askar didn't find it strange at all that a homeless mer wanted to join. He was a liberal and curious man, and he gave me this chance without much thinking. Of course I wasn't the first mer to become a Companion."

"I know," I threw in, "there were even elven Harbingers."

"Aye. The Companions have changed over the eras as well, very much so. Their codex is simple but strong, and it allows them to adapt. Today they may sometimes appear like a bunch of drunken rubble, but they're good people who know their place in the world. That Ysgramor waged war against the elves of Skyrim... that's long gone and over. New challenges worth fighting for are waiting, and the Companions are up for it. Like the return of the dragons, for example. Perhaps it's really a turn of times, the start of another new era."

"That's scary." I shuddered.

He laughed lowly. "No, it isn't. It's just... change. You Nords have been the first humans on Tamriel, and you'll probably also be the last, because you're bullheaded to a fault. You don't do things by half. The world should be thankful that the dragons decided to reappear here and not somewhere else."

"Some people say we're far too superstitious to be truly civilised. And far too emotional." My master in Cheydinhal had said that, an Imperial himself, a picture of cultured understatement and sophistication. On the outside.

"Whoever says something like that is a fool." He gave me a gentle smile. "Did you know that the Nerevarine was a Nord as well?"

"No. Really?"

"Yes, a guy from Solstheim. I've only seen him once... he had a hard time with our Ashkhan when he needed the tribes' support. We weren't very hospitable back then... nobody thought he'd survive the trials. But our Wise Woman liked him..." He chortled.

"I wish you were the Dragonborn, Athis," I said with a sigh. "Or someone like you. You've seen so much... I know nothing, and I just stumble through this whole mess and have no idea what I'm doing."

"He didn't either, Qhouri. It is rumoured that he came to Vvardenfell as a prisoner of the Empire. Just like you came back to Skyrim. And still he became Azura's Champion, defeated Dagoth Ur and destroyed the Heart of Lorkhan. A simple boy from Solstheim."

"And he destroyed Vvardenfell in the process."

"True, many hold that against him. But he couldn't know what would happen when he severed the source of the Tribunal's power. Perhaps they knew... and perhaps it was better that he didn't, or he might have faltered."

"So... you think it's better to run head first against a wall instead to think beforehand of the consequences?"

"Yes. Sometimes walls have to be knocked down, and your Nordic bullheads work just fine for that kind of job. Let others take care of the rubble."

"But it will still hurt."

"You're a Companion. Companions don't ail just because of a bit of a headache, or we'd get nothing ever done." The broad grin that spread over his face belied the harshness of his tone. And then he leaned forwards, his expression suddenly serious.

"I tell you something, Qhouri. I know much less than I'd like about all these Nordic mysteries that are unveiled at the moment... but I believe that you will get done whatever is necessary. And that this job is in good hands. You're the Dragon of the North, after all."

His words sent a shiver down my spine, and at the same time they filled me with warmth, because it was so easy to believe him. There was no reverence or awe, just a simple acknowledgement. He had seen and experienced so much more than we humans – I understood that a few mythical beasts suddenly appearing in a secluded corner of the world couldn't evoke the same terror in him they caused in us Nords. And somehow, this was very soothing.

"Promise me something, Athis?"

"What?"

"That you'll still be here in three years. And that we'll have the biggest birthday party Whiterun has ever seen!"

He laughed lowly. "When is your birthday, Qhouri?"

"In winter too. 28th of Morning Star."

"Then we should celebrate my 300th and your 30th together, don't you think?"

At least now I had something to work for.

If we had taken it literally when Valmir said that the ruins were haunted, I wouldn't have screamed in terror when the first ghost materialised right in front of me – as much as a shimmering form of translucent, chilling mist could be called "materialised". For a single moment it appeared as if it was confused and disoriented. And then it attacked with a wail, swinging an axe that made unsettling solid contact with my shield. When my mace crushed in a knee-jerk reaction against its head, it felt as if it plunged into a pillow – and at the same time I felt incorporeal bones break before the thing crumpled into a heap of glowing dust.

I shuddered, shaking myself to cast off the weird sensation. Athis just shrugged and dropped into a crouch. We'd have to be careful.

Forelhost was a distinctively Nordic ruin and therefore familiar, but it wasn't a tomb like all the others I had visited so far. People had lived here in seclusion for more than a hundred years, and we found everything that belonged to such a settlement – living rooms, a large kitchen, storerooms, workshops, an alchemy laboratory and a forge.

And in one wing the dormitories, long lines of cots, every single one of them occupied. The skeletons lying on the mouldering mattresses were an eerie sight... some of them looking as if they had just gone to sleep, some twisted into abnormal positions as if they had died under torturous pain. Some held empty potion bottles between their bony fingers, more of these identical small phials cluttered on the floor or standing on nightstands.

Athis sniffed on one of the bottles.

"Poison?" I whispered, although no one was there who could have heard me.

He shrugged. "Not sure, too old. But... it looks certainly like that."

We found the explanation of the gruesome scene in another room. The booklet lying on top of a workbench appeared as if it was placed there for any intruder to be found, and I took it carefully, the yellowed parchment looking as if it would crumple to dust as soon as I touched it. Most of it wasn't legible any more, but it was obviously the journal of the commander of the forces that had besieged the bastion in a final foray to destroy the Dragon Cult once and for all. It told the story of this siege and of the last assault, of the discovery that the inhabitants of Forelhost had committed mass suicide and how half of his men fell to the poisoned water of the well.

It seemed we were the first who had proceeded so far into the ruins since those events, and we pressed on further. With everyone but Athis this whole trip would have ended in disaster, seeing the incredible intricate traps the Cultists had installed. Not only simple pressure plates unleashing fire beams or swinging blades that sliced everything in their way into handy strips of flesh. We encountered lightning traps fuelled by soulstones that had to be taken out from afar, pedestals that released poisoned darts and a floor disk that rose as soon as someone stepped on it, lifting the victim into a bunch of rusty spikes protruding from the ceiling. I froze for a moment when the floor beneath my feet started to move and only escaped a very messy death by jumping off it in the last moment. The dried puddles of blood in the middle of the circle could have warned me, of course.

Athis lured a powerful draugr mage into this trap, and we bent over with hysterical laughter when the living corpse got impaled by the spikes at the ceiling, twitching like an insect in a spider's net, shooting erratic ice spikes until he finally stopped to move.

We also found the well that had killed Skorm's men. The poison had faded over the centuries, but to dive through the icy water and continue the way in wet armour was more than unpleasant. I didn't know how deep in we were, if it was still a roof or already the solid mountain forming the ceiling above us, but an icy wind blew threw the corridors that froze us to the bones. We found a spider lair, a skeever den and a cavern where light streamed in from above. It was a garden, the poisonous deathbell flowers nearly completely covering the ground.

And in the end we found another dragon claw, iron with light green glass talons, and we knew it couldn't be far. A last brief rest, we emptied our waterskins of the last drops and readied ourselves for battle right in front of the circular stone door it would open.

"Let's see what this Dragon Cult was up to," Athis said lowly. He looked exhausted, a bloody scratch over his brow had smeared his warpaint, but his eyes gleamed full of excitement. I nodded sternly, glad to have him by my side, adjusted the symbols on the door and placed the claw in the lock.

We found... something. A _thing_. The familiar clang of coffins breaking open, the familiar shuffling of uneasy undead steps following it. We vanished into the shadows the best we could, trying to outline the forces we'd have to face.

In the background, from an adorned sarcophagus, rose... it wasn't neither draugr nor ghost, but something different. A figure clad in tattered robes, its bare limbs the same withered, sickly pale appearance as those of all the other undead. But it was strangely incorporeal, power shimmering in a faint glow around it that didn't only come from the intricate, gleaming staff it wielded. Its face was covered by a crude mask, the raw, noseless facial features carved into greenish polished stone or metal, I couldn't make it out from the distance.

As soon as I took out the first of the draugr with a silent arrow through its temple, a hollow wail echoed through the cavern, and the thing jerked its head, its unearthly, glowing gaze piercing into mine. It _saw_ me – however it accomplished that, through its strange mask and with me cowering behind solid stone. But a wall of fire suddenly obscured my view completely, streaming around the pillar. Athis pressed himself against my back.

I turned my head slightly. "What is that?"

His whisper was anxious. "No idea. But... we should kill it." An arrow struck the wall behind us, an ice spike the pillar that gave us shelter. "And fast." At least there was no wordwall in this room that could distract me.

A curt nod and we darted into action, going for the two draugr closest to us. They were better armoured than the ones we were used to, their horned helmets that let the blue glow of their eyes out through narrow slits giving them an even more terrifying appearance. I blocked a heavy strike, the impact denting my shield, but when my mace crushed against his neck, I felt bones break and the living corpse crumpled into a heap at my feet.

_"FUS!"_ I yanked around, hearing the barked Shout that didn't hit me and saw Athis fly, flailing and crushing to his back with a yell. But the lithe mer curled himself into a ball, pushed himself into a backwards roll and up to his feet again before his foe could close in on him, driving both his daggers into his abdomen, right beneath his breastplate. That were two.

An archer, a mage and the _thing_ were left. Their master, obviously, not walking, but _floating_ towards me with flattering rags.

"Out here," I yelled the moment it lifted its staff, barely escaping another wall of fire that rushed towards us, retreating into the hall we had come through and further into a narrow corridor. Perhaps we could take advantage of the fact that it was faster than its companions, much faster, coming after us with no sound but a faint hiss. Athis and I ran backwards while shooting arrows and throwing darts at it, but the robes were reinforced with something that looked suspiciously like dragon scales, and even when we hit, it didn't seem to do any harm.

When I nearly slipped in a greasy puddle, the mer yanked me upwards with a firm grip. We had reached a small circular room, a broken stone table lying overturned in the back, the only exit blocked by swinging blades. If we could lure the thing inside... but before I could ponder the idea any further, Athis pushed me behind the slab.

"Fight fire with fire," he pressed out with a grin and ripped a torch from its holder.

The moment our foe appeared in the room and hit the floor with the end of his staff, releasing a new wave of fire that rolled towards us, Athis threw the torch into the shimmering oil covering the ground. And I did what I could do best.

_"YOL!"_

The chamber became a blazing inferno, a storm of heat and flames surging over and around me while I cowered behind the shelter of the massive table, my forearms tightly folded over my head. I kept my eyes pressed shut, felt unbearable heat wave over my face and blister the exposed skin of my arms, wanted to scream but couldn't, burning air and smoke searing my lungs. A few mummies lying in a heap in a corner burst with loud bangs into balls of sparks and burning dust.

It took forever, my lungs and head bursting with lack of air. And then the wave was broken and there was only heat left and smoke and coughing, but I had to breathe and move and _do something_ when that other body that had pressed itself against mine in the tight space between the stone slab and the wall was suddenly gone. Tears and fumes blurred my view, but there was a shadow, darting and running along the wall, obscured by flames and smoke and shimmering air, and then it was gone.

Somehow, I found the breath to scream. "Athis!"

A wail echoed through the room, a wailing screech, the power of millennia dissolving into this sound, all the fury and hate this being had gathered since the ancient times when it had to admit defeat for the first time. Now it had become a torch standing in a sea of fire, rags and flesh burning. It had let go of its staff and reached behind it, its clawlike fingers clenched around Athis' throat. He had driven his daggers into its neck and still held fast to them, both figures careening back and forth in an eerie struggle.

My mace smashed with an underhand strike into its armpit, swang upwards and came down onto its shoulder. The wail stopped all of a sudden, dissolving into a hiss that went through marrow and bone, its fingers coming undone from Athis' throat and reaching towards my collar. But the glow of its lifeforce flickered already as the mer shoved his daggers deeper, his face contorted in pain and deadly intent, and the edge of my shield crushed into the gap between mask and robe.

I felt bones break and the hiss became a horrible, dry gurgle. Finally it dropped between us, twitching and burning with little flames flaring up anew. The mer fell into my arms, I gripped him around the chest and dragged him out of the room until the air became breathable again, although still reeking of smoke and burning ancient flesh. I only stopped when an ice spike hit my shoulder, yanked up my shield and felt the impact of an arrow.

There were still two draugr left, and of course they wouldn't leave us alone. With the last remains of human intelligence they had waited for us to escape the inferno we had unleashed, standing in safe distance and attacking from afar.

Athis groaned in pain when I let his limp body slide to the ground, but he didn't open his eyes, only his rasping breath proof that he was still alive. Sudden fury boiled over, providing me with new strength. This would end quickly now.

_"FUS RO DAH!"_

They may have been powerful, but they still consisted only of brittle bones, rotten flesh and fragile sinews. My shout crushed them both into the wall behind them and into each other, the heap of uncoordinated, flailing limbs nearly comical to watch. Even if another spray of ice that hit my burnt skin like needles made it hard to breathe and my arms heavy, I shattered them into a clump that was as dead as it should be.

When I rushed back, Athis had propped himself with his back against the wall, breathing hard, blistered, bleeding and with dark purple bruises around his neck, but grinning. All in all, he didn't seem in much worse condition than I, which was a miracle considering his stunt.

I dropped to my knees beside of him. "You're a lunatic, Athis," I sighed, "what did you think?"

Fumbling a jar with healing salve from a pouch, he smirked at my relieved expression. "You don't live on a volcano for ages without developing some fire resistance, Qhouri," he snickered, his voice hoarse. "Come on, I'm fine. But I need some fresh air." We treated our blisters and scratches with the cooling balm, gulped down a healing and a stamina potion each and finally struggled to our feet. I gathered the remains of the undead priest – beside that staff and the mask, only a few charred rags and blackened scales were left of him.

I really wanted to know what exactly we had killed here, and I would beat this knowledge out of Captain Valmir if I had to. This was certainly no simple priest that had outlasted the centuries.

When we left the ruins, we stood on the battlements of the bastion, high above the courtyard. The sun shone into my face, and despite my aching lungs I breathed in the cold, clear air deeply. We had spent the whole night and half of the next day in the darkness, and only now I realised how exhausted I was. Especially after I felt the familiar tugging at my conscience and found the inevitable wordwall behind a corner. A Shout that would conjure a lightning storm above my enemies could prove useful, though.

We weren't particularly quiet as we made our way around the courtyard to the wall, but Valmir was obviously too occupied to notice our appearance, arguing with a stranger. When we heard him explain that he needed someone to go into the ruins and retrieve a staff for the Stormcloaks, my face fell in bewilderment. Did he believe us dead? Did he want to send reinforcements? Athis looked as clueless as I, shrugged and finally simply dove over the narrow parapet into the courtyard.

We didn't have opportunity to ask for an explanation, though. As soon as he heard us approach, Valmir shot around with a snarl. The other man, a guard from Riften by the look of his armour, slumped together with a nasty gurgle as a dagger slit his throat while a fireball was already forming in the Altmer's palm.

I groaned inwardly. Not again. Lifting my shield to catch the fiery missile, I pressed the hopefully last Shout of the day through my aching throat.

_"WULD!"_

It was enough to let me crash into him. Before he could release his next spell, my dagger was lodged neatly into his chest.

I rolled away from the corpse, panting and so tired I could have slept right there. But in the end, my curiosity was stronger than my exhaustion. At first it didn't seem as if he kept anything interesting in the many pockets of his armour, a few gold coins, some potions, a spare dagger, a handkerchief. A satin handkerchief. I stared incredulously at the item. It was immaculate. But then I felt a neatly folded sheet of paper between my fingers.

_You will proceed to the ruins of Forelhost to retrieve the Mask from the Dragon Cult there.  
If you are discovered, impersonate an officer. It is unlikely that anyone from Skyrim will be clever enough to see through the disguise.  
Once you have obtained the Mask, bring it to Labyrinthian._

No signature, but I was enough to make me blanch, my head suddenly dizzy.

Disguise. No officer. The Mask. Dragon Cult. _Labyrinthian._

There it was, the clue I had so desperately searched for.

Everything fell into place when Athis shook my shoulder and startled me from my daze, concern in his face. Draped over his arm, he carried what he had found in the tent of the false Stormcloak – the characteristic grey robe of a Thalmor wizard. His eyes grew wide when he took the parchment from my fingers and read it.

Somehow we made it down the mountain, I let Athis deal with the Jarl's housecarl for our reward and with the carriage driver to take us home. My head was a maelstrom of thoughts and panic, pacing around in circles and drowning out everything else.

The Thalmor. Labyrinthian. The Thalmor in the Labyrinthian.

Delphine had been right. Something was happening there, and the Thalmor were involved. Remains of the ancient Dragon Cult, gathered in those ruins where _something_ had acknowledged me as Dovahkiin.

I didn't want to go back there. I had to go there. I had to get to the bottom of this plot.

I didn't want to. _I was scared._

It was late in the night when we arrived in Ivarstead, and Wilhelm didn't ask questions, only took care that my tankard was never empty until the maelstrom was finally replaced by a drunken stupor. Athis was there when I whimpered through a nightmare of endless white and nothing, but apart from that, he left me alone. There was nothing he could have done. We both knew where this would lead, what I'd have to do. And I had to find the strength to do it all on my own.

No shallow encouragement from the mer, no downplaying my obvious fears. He knew about them, he had seen me after I had come back from that dreadful place for the first time. And he let me fight through them in my own pace, in my own way. Was just there to lean on.

Only when we sat opposite of each other on the carriage to Whiterun and I turned the mask pensively in my hands, studying the design and the dragon words engraved inside, he touched my wrist.

"Hey. You can deal with Thalmor."

I looked at him from behind the streaks of hair that had fallen into my face. "The Thalmor are not the problem, Athis. Not even the fact that Kodlak will roast me if I get involved with them, or that I will have to return to Delphine and apologise."

He leaned forwards, his elbows on his knees. And then he snatched the mask from my fingers, pressed it against his face and poked the end of the staff we had retrieved into my chest.

"Stop... fretting. Girl." His voice came out as a daunting, hollow growl, and with his red, tousled, slightly singed ponytail that rose above the crude green features like a tattered broom, he looked so ridiculous that I stared at him for a moment and then burst into hysterical laughter.

No way he was older than _twelve_.


	18. Wrangling

"You're leaving?"

I stood in the doorway between the twins' rooms, hand raised to knock on Farkas' door, when the one on the opposite side of the corridor opened and he left his brother's chamber, throwing a remark over his shoulder that they'd meet at the stables in an hour. Concern and urgency shadowed his face, but a warm, welcoming smile flashed up when he saw me and pushed his own door open. I leant against the door frame, the room was chaos and he made it only worse when he rummaged through a chest, throwing potions, clothes and spare armour parts into a heap on his bed.

"Yeah. Gotta go to Morthal. Vampires. Good to see you back."

Suddenly I felt numb. Of course I couldn't just fetch him and expect that he'd join me to Labyrinthian. When I didn't answer, he turned his head, his gaze wandering over my face.

"What is it?"

"Vampires? Are the girls okay?"

He clenched his teeth, worry flitting over his face. "Yes. I hope so. But another little girl is dead, and Jonna panics. Idgrod has requested us to come as soon as possible."

"You go with Vilkas?"

"Aye." He turned a whetstone between his fingers, assessing if it was still usable, then flipped it with an impatient motion onto the pile on his bed.

I gnawed on my lip, questions racing through my head. Should I tell him at all what had happened in Riften? Of this new lead? That I wanted him to come with me to Labyrinthian? That I _needed_ him to come with me?

The thought to enter these ruins without his company filled me with dread. But he had other obligations, and his mind was elsewhere anyway. No way I could deter him to go to Morthal now.

"Good luck," I said lowly, "come back safe." I turned to leave. And suddenly his head jerked up, nostrils flaring. I felt his gaze between my shoulder blades and cringed.

"Wait." His voice was low. "What's wrong, Qhouri?"

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"I know your scent when you're scared. And you're a lousy liar."

I stared at him with wide open eyes, cursing his senses. But he rose and stood before me, his eyes boring into mine, his preparations forgotten.

"Gods, woman, talk to me! What is it?"

I swallowed, sweat pooling on my temples. "I have to go back to Labyrinthian."

His eyes shot wide. "Divines. Why?"

I fumbled Valmir's orders out of my pocket and handed them to him. "We killed a dragon, a dragon priest and a Thalmor in Riften. I have to find out what's going on there." I gave him a feeble smile. "Don't worry. I'll be fine."

I hadn't heard the door behind me clap.

"Thalmor? You killed a Thalmor? Are you insane?" Vilkas' harsh question came from across the hall.

I groaned. "It was he or us. What should I have done, let him roast us?"

Farkas eyes were fixed on the parchment. "You wanted… I should come with you."

"But you can't." I took it from his fingers.

"What has happened?" Vilkas demanded to know.

"The Thalmor are searching for remains of the Dragon Cult and take them to Labyrinthian. I have to know what they're up to." I couldn't resist. "Seems Delphine's paranoia wasn't entirely baseless."

His face darkened into an angry scowl that only deepened with Farkas' next question.

"Can you wait till I'm back?"

"No. Finally there's something, a clue… I can't risk that the Thalmor beat me to it."

"Don't you even think about it, brother." With a few steps Vilkas stood like a wall in the doorway, trapping me between the men.

Farkas raked his hand through his hair. "And if there's... more than just Thalmor? What if something happens?" That was exactly what I dreaded, this _something_ that had already happened once. I knew that for him, I was easily readable.

"You're not serious," Vilkas growled. "Don't you even think about hunting the figments in her head instead to protect your daughters."

"And you stop telling me what I have to think!" Farkas shouted, fury flaring in his face as he turned his attention to his brother.

The sudden silence after this outbreak was ear shattering. The brothers locked eyes over my head, a silent struggle of Vilkas' cold wrath against Farkas' angry confusion. And suddenly I understood that this wasn't about the decision between Thalmor and vampires. Vilkas tried to carry his aversion for me over to his brother, made him a pawn in this trial of strength by questioning Farkas' loyalty.

It wasn't about which choice was reasonable. He simply wouldn't allow that his brother did anything against his will.

Vilkas' voice was menacing and calm. "You would abandon your daughters for her?"

Farkas' breath hitched, he took a step back and sank down on the edge of his bed. But he looked at me as if he searched for guidance. "I promised to have your back when you need me," he said lowly.

I couldn't help him. "Yes, you did. But you also promised Jonna that they can rely on you." I turned to leave, but Vilkas blocked the exit, acting as if I wasn't there at all.

"You make way too many promises, brother," he remarked coldly.

Farkas buried his head in his palms. "Vilkas... please. It's just vampires. Dangerous, but nothing special." Slowly he lifted his eyes to his brother, dark with distress, but his jaw set in determination. "Go for me. Please. Take Skjor with you and keep them safe for me."

Vilkas made a heavy step into the room before I could object, shoving me to the side like a piece of furniture, towering over his brother. "Of course I will go, they're my nieces. It's not me who's breaking a promise here," he snarled. "But you? You can't have everything, brother. You can't be a Companion, a father and her... protector." He made a derisive gesture towards me. "You already broke your promise to Kodlak for her. And now this? What will you abandon next, after your honour and your children?"

He took in his brother's horrified expression with a complacent, cruel glare, the silence only broken by a desperate groan that broke from Farkas' throat. I had no idea what he was talking about... but it was obviously _much_ more than just the decision between Thalmor and vampires. And it made my blood boil – that Vilkas bullied him around like a child, that Farkas let him and that both used _me_ as a pawn now.

At least that was how I felt. They could go to Oblivion, both of them.

"Do what you want," I pressed out between clenched teeth, "but leave me out of it."

But Vilkas grabbed my arm when I brushed past him, his grip like a vice. "Leave you out, Dragonborn? How so, when you can't do a single step on your own? When all of Jorrvaskr only circles around what _you_ have to do?"

My slap hit him with so much force that his head snapped into his neck, leaving instantly a distinct hand print on his cheek. He released me from his grasp with a shocked gasp.

"You ass!" I hissed, trembling with fury, "stop acting as if your brother was my thrall! No one will abandon anything here!" A low growl formed deep in his chest, and I recognised the familiar dark rings around his irises. His hands clenched into white-knuckled fists as he fought to control himself, the muscles in his neck strained into thick cords.

But I would not back down from a wolf with a temper and stared him down, held his gaze... and full of astonishment I realised that I could read him, that he wasn't quite as deadpan as he probably thought himself. There were fury and cold calculation, the desire to lash out and to retreat into himself. And beneath all that flaring temper that he caged in with so much effort, there was a deep, desperate tiredness... and a hint of fear.

Something had hurt him. I didn't know what or when, and I didn't know if he showed this to me deliberately or if it was just a slip in his composure. But it made me avert my eyes from his stare.

A barely visible smirk curled his lips. Barely visible, but full of triumph.

I turned to Farkas who had watched us with wide eyes. "I don't have time to deal with this bullshit, and you haven't either," I said tersely. "Move your ass to Morthal, I see you in a few days."

None of them held me back when I stormed out of the room, out of Jorrvaskr and up the stairs to Dragonsreach. Before I left, I had to speak with Farengar, show him the mask and ask him about connections between the Labyrinthian and the Dragon Cult. I remembered having read something about it and was sure it was in one of his books.

The court mage knew at once what I meant and went to gather the tome from his shelves. He also offered me the comfortable armchair in front of his desk and a goblet of wine. The quiet in the mage's study soothed my ruffled nerves, and to read about Bromjunaar, the capital of Skyrim during the era before the Dragon War that only became the Labyrinthian much later focused my mind on the task before me again. The highest ranking priests of the Cult had lived and ruled from there, and no one knew what was left of them in the depths of the ruins.

Meanwhile, Farengar tried to decipher the dragon speech that was engraved into the inside of the mask, but he couldn't make much of it... only that it belonged to a priest named Rahgot. And that it had to be ancient and indeed dated back to the Merethic Era, judged by the crude, raw design. Well, at least the _thing_ we had killed in Forelhost had a name now.

When I was finished I put the book on his desk and leant back in the chair, hands folded behind my head, watching Farengar as he worked concentrated on the mask that lay on his enchanting table.

He had dropped whatever he had been doing when I stormed into his study with my questions and demands and snatched the mask from my hands with an eager grin. He had been friendly and helpful from the very beginning, just like the Greybeards and so many others.

And like the Companions. They were always there, with help, advice and their sword arms. Of course I did my share of work for them as well, but that was only fair. But I would never have come anywhere near where I was now without them.

Perhaps I was too used to this, to take their support for granted. Perhaps Vilkas was right, perhaps I asked too much and perhaps I was really far too dependent on them.

And perhaps I panicked far too easily.

Farengar chuckled under his hood. "You may lay your feet onto my desk if it helps you relax, Dragonborn."

I had to grin. "Don't call me that, court mage."

He shot me a look over his shoulder. "Want another wine? Our cellars are still full with vintage from Skingrad. Good stuff. It was the last the Jarl got from Cyrodiil before the borders were locked."

"Clever. Thank you, but I already got plastered last night. And I should get going."

"Always in a hurry." He shook his head.

"Tell that the dragons. And undead. And Thalmor."

"Thalmor?" he asked alarmed.

I grinned, standing up. "Don't worry. The Jarl gets an advance warning before I start a war with the Dominion."

"That would be appreciated," he muttered into my back as I left his room.

As I trailed down the steps from Dragonsreach, I contemplated seriously just to take a room at the Mare and leave Whiterun with the first light. Or to leave right away. Not to return to Jorrvaskr at all, to avoid all the discussions and awkwardness and quarrel. But that would mean to admit defeat, and I wasn't willing to show any weakness to a Vilkas who sat certainly brooding over a mead in the hall and let everyone take part in his sour mood.

If they could bear him, they could bear me too.

But he wasn't there when I entered Jorrvaskr. Only Aela sat with a stranger at a table in a corner, and Ria and Athis had gathered with Vignar and Brill by the fire. The old man shared another episode of his life with the whelps, either about his time in the Legion or one of his many adventures as a Companion. He did this from time to time, got lost in his own memories, in recounts of events long gone and over. Never had I seen someone put him off when he was in this mood, no matter how verbose and tedious his narratives sometimes became. He was the eldest of us all, and we respected his age as much as his experience.

I pulled a chair into their round and joined them, popping open a bottle of ale. This was exactly what I needed now, to listen with half an ear to a story that didn't concern me and let my mind wander.

But when the door to the living quarters clapped and heavy steps came up the stairs, I knew who it was without having to look. I actually started to distinguish my siblings by means of their scent and the pattern of their steps, I realised. And this was a wolf, but it was not Vilkas.

I should have just stayed at the Mare.

Farkas took quietly a free chair, stretching his legs towards the fire. But he didn't join us, held a careful distance, didn't listen to Vignar and didn't get himself a drink. But he had taken his seat in a way that I always had him in the corner of my eye, and his silent stare made me nervous.

Athis leant to me. "When will you leave?" he whispered.

"At dawn. Wanna join me?"

His eyes wandered to Farkas. "What's with him?"

"I'd rather go alone," I frowned. "He's a fool. Nearly as bad as his brother." The hushed conversation earned us an angry glare from Ria. She seemed genuinely interested in Vignar's rambling.

Athis was quiet for long minutes. When he bowed his head to my ear again, I expected another lecture about the importance of shield-siblings. But it wasn't. "Clear it up," he whispered. "Don't part in anger. It's not worth it."

Vilkas had obviously parted in anger too, and not only with me. I felt a headache approach and buried my forehead in my palms. Nothing of this would have happened if I had returned from Riften just a single lousy hour later. Or if I had gone to Dragonsreach first.

Athis' elbow nudged me into the side, but he stared stoically into his mug, only his lips curled into a small grin. I nudged him back, stood up and left the hall towards the training yard. An icy wind swept over the patio, making me shiver after the warmth of the hall. Slowly I ascended to the Skyforge, found a place where I could lean against the warm stones of the eagle's wing. It was one of my favourite spots with its beautiful sight over the city on one side and the plains on the other.

Farkas settled quietly beside me, close enough that I felt his bodywarmth.

"You really pulled that off."

"Yes. I'll come with you."

"No, you won't."

A small smile quirked his lips. "Vilkas and Skjor are already halfway in Morthal. I've nothing better to do."

"You're a fool."

"Perhaps. I'm a fool, he's an ass and you're a stubborn bitch. Doesn't change that he's wrong and that I'll join you."

"But you should be in Morthal now. Jonna will give you a hard time when Vilkas tells her why you're not there. And you know he won't miss the chance to tell her."

"But that's not the point. The point is that everybody can deal with a few vampires, but no one knows what awaits you in Labyrinthian. I dragged you out there once, I can do it again."

No, that wasn't the point either. The point was that we had shattered something tonight that had been brittle and fragile before, and I wasn't sure if it was possible to mend it again.

And what I needed more than anything, more than his protection and strength and confidence was peace in Jorrvaskr. It was my refuge, the short times of respite here were what kept me going. Nothing was worth to destroy this peace.

"You will regret this. I don't want you to fight with Vilkas over me, Farkas. And even less do I wanna fight with him over you. It's ridiculous."

He clenched his teeth. "He'll get over it."

I regarded him pensively. He had this look… that he always wore when an idea had clawed itself into his brain.

"It's not worth it. That you clash with him like that."

His face darkened into a scowl. "Will you stop telling me what is worth it?"

I blushed. At least he didn't shout at me. "But it will only become worse from here. Your brother hates me. "

"Yes, and at the moment he hates me too. We're in this together. But he'll get over it."

And in this he was wrong. Of course he knew his twin much better than I, but my gut feeling told me that it wouldn't get better, that Vilkas wouldn't get over it. No doubt he would reconcile with his brother. But I had the dark feeling that between us, nothing was left of our truce, and I had no idea how to patch it up. Farkas was so easy to deal with because he was so open, never afraid to show what was going on in him. He was easy to trust because he was so trusting himself. Vilkas trusted no one, was reticent, offish and always on guard, and he was a mystery to me.

"Can you tell me what he meant... with that promise to Kodlak?"

I felt him tense beside me, but he remained quiet.

"I'm sorry," I said hesitantly. "It's not my business."

He turned his head to me. "No, it's okay. I'll tell you. It _is_ your business... in a way." His hands clenched in his lap as he gathered his thoughts. "When I... when we were in Dustman's Cairn... it was the first time for months that I changed. And in a way... I was glad I had to do it." He swallowed heavily.

"You... why?"

He sighed deeply. "It's a long story. Kodlak... he is ill. No one knows how long he has still to live... a few months or a few years, but he is dying. Rotting away. Danica can only slow the process, but not heal him." Deep sadness lingered in his voice. "He knows this, and he wants to go to Sovngarde. He's a warrior after all, it's where he belongs, into Shor's Hall. But he can't, not with the beastblood. As a werewolf, he belongs to Hircine, and he will go to his Hunting Grounds when he dies."

It took me a moment to stomach these news. I knew Kodlak was ill, but whenever I met him, he didn't _seem_ ill. He didn't look like a dying man. But I had learned quickly to trust him, to confide in his wisdom and understanding, much faster than I thought possible... and I understood what he meant to the Companions, especially to the twins. He was their father figure, the one who had raised and formed them. To see him like this and to know that he had perhaps only months left... and that not only his life, but his soul was in danger, it had to be terrifying.

When Farkas spoke on, his voice was strained with emotions. "He is searching for a cure. That's why we see so little of him... he's working all the time on his research. And... when he became aware of the problem, he asked us to follow him. To get rid of the blood when possible, and not to use it any more. To stay free of Hircine's influence."

"And that was the promise you gave him."

His face twisted in pain. "Yes. Skjor and Aela refused, of course. For them, it's a blessing, not a curse. But Vilkas complied at once... because of Sovngarde, but mostly... because he has always struggled with the blood. He had always difficulties to reign it in, to tame his wolf. Much worse than anyone else. For him, it has always been a curse. He wants to get rid of it, and he has only changed once since that day."

"That one night in the Underforge."

He nodded. "I went through this with him because I thought they were right, he and Kodlak. They're smart, after all. And... Vilkas wants it so much, this cure. We've joined the Circle together... I couldn't leave him alone with that decision."

I watched him pensively. "You had to change in Dustman's Cairn, or they would have killed us. He understands that, doesn't he? I mean... you had to defend yourself."

He gave me an odd look. "I could have fled if you hadn't been there. Come back later and take on them one by one. If I had been alone, I could have made it without the change. But not with you trapped in there."

My breath hitched. "And that's why he says you broke your promise for me."

"Aye. But... for me, it was more than just self-defence. It was a relief to change. I didn't know how much I had missed it. And afterwards... it was the beastblood that kept me alive, when I was trapped in that void. My wolf saved me, and when it was over, I knew I couldn't go on like that. That I can't deny him. I don't know what I'll do when Kodlak finds the cure. But until then, I can't change what I am. And I won't torture myself, not like Vilkas does it."

"He's so itchy because he doesn't change any more?"

He shot me an amused look. "You call that _itchy_?" But he became serious again quickly. "He always had a temper, and he was always a broody bastard... but it has become worse since then. Much worse. Not to use the blood doesn't mean it's not there. The wolf is still a part of him, you can't just ignore him... and he makes himself known. But Vilkas fights it instead to live with him. He fights all the time..." His voice trailed off.

"Even if it's like torture to himself?" I asked incredulously. "I mean… he sees it, doesn't he? He's not stupid, he must know that he's an insufferable, choleric ass. I don't think he's really happy with himself…"

He gave a short, unhappy laugh. "No, he isn't. But he is stubborn... and he believes that he mustn't give in, that his honour demands that he stays true to his word. He hates to be a pawn of Hircine... and he doesn't want to disappoint Kodlak. Especially not after I have failed him."

He sat slumped together, staring at his feet with jaded eyes. I laid my hand on his shoulder, but before I could say anything, he lifted his face to me, and it revealed all the pain he felt. All the intractability of this situation. Sometimes, there was no _solution_.

"What he said today… it's not about honour or our promise to Kodlak or the girls," he said in a strained voice. "He thinks I abandoned _him._"

He had revealed so much to me... so many mutual recriminations and disappointments, so much guilt and distrust. I was grateful for his openness, although I wasn't sure if I understood everything he had told me, all the implications that came with it. To make this decision, to disappoint his Harbinger as much as his brother, had certainly not been easy for him. To be condemned for it had to be even worse, and to be condemned by his twin…

Honourable werewolves. I remembered my feeling during my first real conversation with Vilkas. _There's more to come. You've no idea what you got yourself into._ My sense of foreboding had been right.

"I don't believe that, Farkas. You have to make your own decisions, it's not that he can do it for you. But that doesn't mean that you abandon him. And I'm sure he knows that you'll never let him down. He's... different when you're together. Calmer."

"Unless you get involved," he said with a sad smile.

I couldn't bring myself to meet his gaze. "But that's because he can't stand me, not because of you. And… he has reason enough, I reckon. I haven't been exactly nice either. I'll just try to stay out of his way. Not to peeve him further."

He searched my face with eyes that seemed to gleam in the dim light of the glowing coals. "Qhouri, I..." He bit his lip. "It's not your fault. You don't have to _do_ anything. I'm just glad you listened." He inhaled deeply. "I'm glad I could tell you. Aela and Skjor... they don't understand him. And the other whelps... this is something they don't know. Not in detail, at least."

We sat quietly side by side, I leant against his shoulder, his warmth sipping through my tunic. Slowly I felt him relax. I didn't want him to come so close, I didn't want a confidant, and most of all didn't I want to get drawn into the twins' personal problems. But sometimes, it simply didn't matter. Sometimes, all that mattered was that he needed someone to listen.

"You think you'll manage to get up with dawn?" I asked finally.

A tentative smile formed on his face, his hand coming up and ruffling through the hair in my neck. "Yeah. Sleep well, sister. I'll be there."

* * *

We spent the last night before we'd enter Labyrinthian not far from the ruins, in the mountains to the north-east of it. We had spotted a dragon above a snow-covered peak, flying in tight circles over a certain spot that made us curious. It wasn't a burial ground we found, though. It was a word wall, and in front of it a shrine to Akatosh, the massive monolithic altar littered with offerings. A good, safe place to rest after we had slayed the beast.

In the morning, I prayed for a blessing, for guidance, strength and a grain of luck. It was strangely fitting. If Akatosh was the father of the dragons, I was his daughter too.

Farkas had filled me in about the few facts he knew about the enormous field of ruins we were about to explore. He only knew the outer area, although there were several entrances to the underground parts he could mark on our map. And from our resting place, we had a good overview of the stone chaos. Now in the light of day, it didn't look half as intimidating as during that blizzard when we had been here first, and from our lookout we made out some prominent, impressive structures we'd investigate first.

But as soon as we neared the ruins I started to feel it again, this slight tugging at my conscience, a small disturbance that made the muscles in my neck strain, and it became stronger the closer we worked ourselves to the centre of area. It felt a bit like the call of the wordwalls I often sensed long before I came close to them, but this time it was more a careful approach, an attempt to make contact instead of the brutal intrusion into my mind I had already experienced. And it was much less frightening than what I remembered, although there was no doubt that my reaction back then hadn't been just a _figment_.

Something was here, and it made itself known. And we would find out what it was.

I was better guarded this time, aware of what could happen and tried consciously to block it out, but more than once Farkas caught me distracted, listening or staring at nothing. But he was alert enough, nudged me back into attention when my mind slipped away and made me concentrate on our surroundings, which was hard enough. A thick layer of snow covered the ruins, glistening in the sunshine and muffling every sound in a way that made it entirely impossible to make out distances or directions, and the walls everywhere as much as the wheezing of the wind between the buildings didn't make it any easier.

But the whole complex was nearly entirely barren and unpopulated anyway. Only a few frost trolls lingered on their lookouts on top of walls or roofs and weren't exactly quiet in their threat behaviour, roaring and beating their chests in a display of strength and territorialism. They were as easy to make out in time as to dispatch. And every time we climbed a set of steep, slippery stairs, the bright sunlight enabled us to overlook the field of ruins in its entirety – no way to get lost under these conditions. In the distance, down in the plains at the foot of the mountain, another typical structure lay embedded into the landscape – Dustman's Cairn.

From above we had seen that the layout of the whole site was in fact fairly symmetrical, with huge buildings at the eastern and western edge and a dominating dome in the centre.

The broad entrance of this dome, marked by monolithic standing stones, opened into a narrow aisle that led along the outer wall and surrounded the inner chamber that was accessible from the opposite site. We had spent that fateful night in a dome of similar layout, albeit much smaller, it provided perfect shelter from the harsh winds and snowstorms.

Farkas wrinkled his nose as soon as we entered the nearly pitch-black interior, sniffing before he lit up a torch. "Careful," he whispered, "something in here is already dead. And it doesn't reek like dead frost troll."

It wasn't. A frozen corpse in a fur-lined, hooded robe lay sprawled on its stomach in front of the door to the inner chamber, strangely twisted as if he had tried to crawl into safety. Which was obviously prevented by the orcish dagger stuck in his back. A shortsword was strapped to his hip, but there were no signs of a fight. This had either been an ambush or an attack from acquaintances. When we turned the body, the pale, chiselled features of an Altmer looked up to us, showing nothing but utter surprise.

Another Altmer who – perhaps – wasn't what he appeared to be. But the contents of his pockets yielded no result, and we went on, opened the door to the main chamber.

A strange sight awaited us after we had lit the torches in the circular room. It was smaller than it looked from the outside, and it was devastated. The floor littered with rubble, broken masonry, shattered urns, rotten furniture. It didn't look like normal decay, not even the one that took place over millennia – it looked as if everything in it was destroyed wilfully. Opposite of the door rose a round, elevated platform with strange pedestals on top, small statues that had once been human but were shattered as well, the faceless heads mostly broken off. And in the centre the head of a dragon, withered but unharmed.

And in front of the pedestals lay a folded sheet of paper and another mask. As if someone had only recently placed it there, and only for us to find. I had the nagging feeling that the raw features carved into ancient, polished wood grinned at us.

At least we had found a proof that indeed something was happening here in Labyrinthian, and that my suspicions hadn't been mere phantasms. But the effortlessness with which we had made this discovery filled me with unease.

But in the end, it was obviously only a lucky coincidence that spared us a lot of work and blood. The parchment was the note of a mercenary, the rough handwriting barely legible, and contained a short explanation what had happened here. I read the account of their journey into the mountains and how their client, once arrived at this building, had put on the mask and vanished without a trace, just to reappear again hours later. This strange event repeated itself several times until the hired thugs lost their patience and stabbed him to death once he appeared again, stole his equipment and left. All this had happened not too long ago, the corpse of the Altmer was only a few days old.

I was rapt into my lecture and only vaguely aware that Farkas who had inspected the room and the remains of the pedestals hunched down beside me. I did not notice that he took the mask, turned it curiously between his hands and pressed it on his face.

But I noticed that he was suddenly gone.

The shock gripped me to the marrow.

That fool! This was at least as bad as flipping levers of which one didn't know what they'd do. To play around with magical things – he should have really known better!

On the other hand, we had both tried on the Rahgot mask just because it looked so weird, and it had done nothing beside giving us a small boost of stamina.

But I had no idea where he was now. The Altmer had obviously taken no harm wherever the thing had brought him, and this titbit of information was the only one that didn't let me panic completely while I waited for Farkas to reappear. And it was obviously possible to come back – although I didn't know how, perhaps it needed more than just the mask for it.

If he was trapped wherever he was... cold sweat ran down my spine when my line of thought abruptly halted at this point.

And when he suddenly popped back into existence, his sword in one hand, the mask in the other and a broad grin plastered over his face, I wanted to stab a dagger into his back.

"This is awesome, Qhouri," he declared, "you gotta see that!"

The last I saw before I was sucked into a tunnel of darkness was his laughing face and his paw-like hand pressing the mask to my face.


	19. Krosis

I could have killed Farkas for his assault with the mask if it hadn't felt so good to have arrived here. Wherever _here_ was.

When the strange feeling of falling without moving subsided, I felt nearly dizzy with the sudden silence around me. No wind howling through open windows and broken walls, none of the many noises another human made, no breathing, no clanking of armour, no steps. The silence was absolute, and it was like a refuge.

And I was alone, truly and more alone than ever before, and it was impossible to be angry with someone who suddenly seemed to be infinitely far away. This solitude was a gift, the perfect refuge and shelter from the outside and I gave in to the immediate and deep relaxation that was fuelled by the unbreakable silence around me, and all the weights on my mind were suddenly lifted.

It took me a moment to discern what exactly made it so soothing, until I realised that is wasn't something, but the absence of something.

Besides every single sound but my own breathing, the nagging presence in the back of my mind was gone, and I knew that no one and nothing would be able to follow me here.

I didn't have to explore the room I was in, it was still the same I had come from and that I had never left, just that I knelt on a lush carpet now instead of debris and rubble, rich furniture around, colourful tapestries covering the stone walls, the whole room brightly lit by candles and braziers. And the shrine was there too, though intact now, the small faceless statues looking at me as if they expected something.

Fortunately I had my pack still on my shoulders when Farkas sent me here, and I took the Rahgot mask out. Holding it against one of the polished heads, it seemed to meld with it, fitting perfectly. They belonged together. There were eight of them waiting for their respective masks.

I had no explanation, not for the changes of the room, not for the knowledge that I was somehow somewhere else than before and at the same time wasn't, but for once it didn't matter. All that counted was the peace I felt, and the feeling of safety. The wooden mask was the key to this refuge, and it was the perfect hiding place and the perfect shelter.

There wasn't much to explore, and I couldn't see much through the narrow slits of the mask on my face anyway, but I also didn't want to return at once. Only now I realised how tense I had been, how exhausting it had been to keep the strange voice in my head at bay since we had entered the ruins, and now I was reluctant to get back. Lying on my back, the mask on my face, I wondered if it would be possible to hide here for a longer period of time, if it was indeed possible to use it as a shelter if the emergency to vanish from the face of the world occurred.

But as exciting as this discovery was, it didn't give me any answers – at least not those I had hoped to find, and we had only started our exploration of the ruins. The weird feeling of falling came back when I tore the mask from my face, the cold and dampness of the ruin all the more unpleasant after the cosiness of the sanctuary.

And as soon as I was back, the tugging was back as well, more insistent than ever. If I had dared to listen, to give in to this mind that had settled itself into my conscience, I would have understood the message.

I didn't dare to, struggled to keep it out, to focus on my surroundings. I was alone, and I had to keep my senses together.

I realised it only on second thought. I was alone. Farkas was gone without a trace, including his pack. Nothing was left of my Companion, nothing gave a hint that he had ever been here. The eerie silence was deceptive and frightening, totally different from the one I had experienced only moments ago.

At first I was convinced that I'd find him outside, that he had become bored and went to examine the nearer surroundings. He wouldn't have gone far, of that I was certain. Only when I noticed that the corpse outside was gone as well, only a frozen puddle of blood reminding of it, I realised that something worse had happened.

There were no traces of a fight, so he hadn't been just attacked by a curious frost troll. Instead I found marks in the snow, footprints and the traces of two heavy objects that had been dragged away.

Whoever had taken him, he had been overpowered without opportunity to react and fight back. A werewolf on guard, with heightened senses and aware of the dangers around him. Whoever it was, he – or they – had to be incredibly powerful. And magic was the only way to overwhelm someone like Farkas without resistance.

Fear lay like a dark cloud over my mind when I envisioned golden-clad Thalmor soldiers dragging two corpses away. It was my fault. I had lingered too long in the peaceful quiet of the sanctuary, hadn't been focused, had left him alone. I had dragged him here into these cursed ruins, he was only here to do me a favour. Vilkas would kill me if he had come to harm.

But perhaps that was what they wanted me to think. Even if they didn't know about the wooden mask, they certainly knew that Farkas hadn't been alone, our traces in the snow at least as revealing as theirs.

I didn't feel the cold when I followed their track that meandered through the ruins and led upwards towards one of the larger buildings rising against the mountains that surrounded the valley, scurrying from shadow to shadow. Nothing was audible around me but the howling of the wind, biting through my furs.

When I cowered behind a broken wall, the heavy iron door in front of me firmly shut, I knew that I could not afford to hesitate, that I had to go inside. Farkas was in there, along with powerful mages that were probably Thalmor. And whatever we had searched for, it was in there as well.

All of them knew that I was coming. To creep up the stairs and push the door open only so wide that I could slip inside felt incredibly futile.

And as soon as it shut behind me, leaving me in complete darkness, only silence remained. The presence in my head was all of a sudden quiet – not gone, there was still this pressure in my neck, but not making itself known any more, as if it was watching me and assessing how I'd proceed further.

I found myself in a long, winding tunnel, fortunately narrow enough that I could touch the walls left and right of me with the tips of my fingers. I didn't dare to light a torch, and the silence was as eerie as complete, no sound but my own harsh breathing audible although I knew that plenty of enemies lurked around. Cold sweat ran down my spine. My shield-brother was trapped in here, immobilised in the best case, dead in the worst. Something that had already proven that it could overwhelm my mind was here too, and I had no way to shut it out. And Thalmor on top.

The first faint shimmer of light made me shiver with relief. It came through a doorway that led into a small room, empty besides a few niches along the wall filled with brittle linen bandages and the shards of long broken burial urns. The exit was a heavy iron gate that was obviously opened by a prominently placed lever right in the wall. It was so prominent that I eyed it suspiciously, my experience with levers far too obviously supposed to open closed gates was rather unpleasant.

But there was no other way, I couldn't find any trace of a trap, and I didn't have a choice.

Nothing happened but the bars of the gate vanishing into the ground, nearly soundless beside a slight scratching noise.

The next room was a huge, circular cavern, nearly entirely empty besides two lines of pillars dividing it into three parts. Lit braziers adorned the columns high above my head, shrouding the edges in shadows and guiding my gaze into the centre. A narrow pit was carved into the ground, filled with an enormous pile of bones that was frighteningly familiar. Across from the entrance I had come through led another iron gate further into the mountain.

I crouched behind one of the pillars, hesitating to go on. Something was wrong with this room. How in Oblivion did a dragon skeleton get down here? And why was there no sign of life, no guards, nothing to stop me?

And then it was there, the voice in my head, assaulting me with so much force that I toppled over, nausea knotting in my stomach.

"Dovahkiin."

No sound was audible but the pounding of my blood in my ears, but a strange waft went through the room, making the glowing cowls in the braziers flare up in heat. I straightened with far too much effort, my palms propped onto my knees, cold sweat pooling on my temples as I searched my surroundings. Everything was silent, nothing moved. It wasn't so dark that the shadows were impenetrable, nothing should have been able to hide from me.

What in Kyne's name was this?

I nearly missed it at first, the faint scraping of bones on earth and bones against bones. Terror gripped me when the heap of bones in the middle of the hall started to move, the long column of a spine rising from the pile and stretching miraculously into the air, long appendages unfolding into the form of wings. A fleshless skull swang slowly from left to right, the dead, dark caverns of its eyes coming to rest on me.

"Drem Yol Lok."

I cowered motionless, as if I could escape this insane situation simply by pretending not to be here, by ignoring what I heard and saw so clearly.

A skeleton of a dragon that moved and talked to me. Its... words, for lack of a better expression, were like an attack, taking over my mind and making me feel dizzy and weak, but in the end it were only words. There was no fire or ice, no fangs or claws threatening to shred me apart.

But on the other hand, it was only a skeleton. It shouldn't be able to do anything at all.

"Welcome, Dovahkiin. Finally."

The voice sounded nearly gentle, and still the dragon – its remains – didn't move. It enabled me to rise finally from my knees and face him openly. Hiding was futile now, that much I knew.

"You... have called me?" I whispered the words. Perhaps he could hear my thoughts just like I heard him in my head, but _thinking_ a conversation was just too weird.

"I had hoped you'd come sooner."

Chaos swirled through my head. I had found the mysterious power that had called me here, nearly dragging me out of my mind. A dragon. Of course it was a dragon. But it couldn't be a normal dragon, no, it had to be undead and buried here in the bowels of the earth. Frantically I tried to recall everything I knew about undead, which wasn't much. There were draugr and revived skeletons and thralls, all of them falling into the category of _to be hit until it's really dead_. None of them had ever tried to talk to me. None of them had ever _called_ me.

And where was Farkas? And the mages who had captured him?

_"Laas"_, I whispered, the only shout I knew that wouldn't be audible back to Whiterun. And then I saw it, the distinctive purple aura that swirled around myself, proof that I was a living being, and several faint silhouettes of similar coloured light behind the dragon and the wall of the cave. And I saw the blue tendrils that swirled around the enormous bones in the middle of the hall.

He was... a thrall, the energy that lent him this semblance of life whirling in erratic patterns through him. I had seen thralls before, the revived corpses that appeared so frighteningly alive, always together with Necromancers, the first time during that fateful fight when Farkas lost his soul. They were vessels for the will of someone else, their existence a mockery of life, entirely dependent on the mind that kept them in this world.

This dragon was a thrall. It was revived, not resurrected like all the others. And still it was not, because it had obviously thoughts of its own and spoke with me, in this unearthly, soundless voice. It wasn't mindless, and whoever had dabbled with this pile of bones perhaps didn't know how incomplete this enthrallment was. Perhaps it wasn't possible to imprison the mind of a dragon. Perhaps he didn't know that there was something like a mind at all.

But the dragon hunched in its nest like a fledgling, only the bare, brittle bones of its wings moving lightly. If there had been a membrane between them, it would have fluttered. As if it wanted to make itself as inconspicuous as possible.

I asked my questions out loud. "What are you?"

"A shadow, once banned into the darkness, called forth by the cruel light of the Kriisfahliil."

"Kriisfahliil?"

"You call them Altmer. I knew them when they were still Aldmer. The eldest folk."

I leant heavily against the pillar. This was only the first of many answers I needed, so many questions I wanted to ask – where was Farkas, was he alive, why did the Thalmor enthrall a dragon, why this one, why here, down in this cavern, why did he call me? I settled for the most pressing.

"Could you stop being in my head?"

Watching him intently, I had to realise that I could read his body language – the way he threw back his skull, the vertebrae of his long neck twisting like a snake, that was undoubtedly a heartfelt laughter.

"Krosis," I could feel his amusement and an edge of superiority behind it that was humiliating, "no, I can't." And even if he could, he wouldn't do it. Free me from his presence.

The initial fear subsided slowly for something like anger and curiosity. "Why have you called me?"

"Mindah, sister. Knowledge. I have something you need. And you have something I want."

"Explain yourself." Slowly I got used to this weird way to speak, although I wished he refrained from using dragon language. With every word, I feared the assault of a true Word of Power.

"Fos dreh hi laan zok? What is it you seek?"

My breath hitched. "Who does all this. Who brings the dragons back."

"Alduin."

"Alduin?"

"Alduin. The Destroyer. The Master."

"He's a dragon too. A dragon resurrecting his brethren?"

Again this faint, haughty amusement. "Dovah, geh. And so much more."

"Tell me more." But the single name he had revealed filled me already with flaring triumph. I knew about Alduin, the ancient foe of mankind that had been killed at the end of the Dragon Wars. I didn't dare to think of the implications of the dragon's claim now. Its meaning would come to me, sooner or later.

"Nid." His voice was nearly a purr, a gentle rumble that cast a spell over me, fascinating and charming. Suddenly I wanted to know how it would sound if I could actually hear him. Suddenly I knew I had to keep him talking, to make him give me more of this... of this gentleness, of this knowledge.

"Why did you call me?"

"I can see your soul, Dovahkiin. It's beautiful, you know that? So alive. So full of hope."

"You can see my soul?"

"Krosis, sister."

"Why do you call me that?"

His head swayed slowly. "Briinah. Sister. You are, child of Akatosh."

"But I take your souls."

"Not mine."

It became quiet, and suddenly I realised why I was here. Because I was the only one who could answer his call. Brethren. Brother and sister. I was here because he needed – wanted, demanded – my help.

"Hin fozir. You owe me."

"I guess I do."

"End this, Dovahkiin. Free me. They," his head jerked back behind him, towards the iron gate that led out of the cavern, and I felt the fury well up in him, "ni lost ges. They don't have the right." The voice became imploring. "They're haskei. Dangerous. Too powerful."

They had a the power to resurrect a dragon, even if they were not in control of him. They worked with violence, disguise and deceit, stopped at nothing and left nothing but death behind to gain power and knowledge they weren't entitled to. And they had Farkas.

In a flash, Delphine's fanatic, unyielding expression in face of Vilkas' contempt came to my mind. _"There are greater powers at work than you can imagine."_

And it lay in my power to stop them, at least for now, and of course I would do it. That's what I had come for, after all – among other things. I just couldn't believe that this dragon wanted me to end his life deliberately, to end the spell that kept him here. It was a miserable travesty of life, but still conscious life.

"Why? Why do you want to die?"

"I am already dead."

"You're waiting for him to bring you back. I would have to kill you again."

Bitter laughter sounded through my skull, a sensation that tingled in my ears. "He won't come for me."

"Why not?"

He answered with another question. "Have you ever heard of Nahfahlaar?"

"No." I had never been interested in the long lists of dragon names Farengar had stored away in his archive. Enemies didn't have names, they weren't individuals. Dragons were just oversized lizards that had to be killed, the power and knowledge of their souls indiscernible.

"The _Jewel of the Imperial Crown_, his scales crimson like crystallised blood, beautiful and strong. Once he betrayed his master, sought safety with the enemy, fought for a god and built an Empire. Proud to be vassal and pet, certain that this Empire was mortal and doomed like its Emperors. But the first, the greatest of them all – he wasn't mortal, and he was a worthy master too." The voice stilled, and the dragon slumped together, his broad jaw lying flat on the ground.

I had to think for a moment what his words meant exactly, but it was clear that he spoke of himself. "You have fought for Tiber Septim?"

A barely noticeable nod, merely a twitch of his head. "They didn't like my story either."

He meant the Thalmor. Gods, this was incredible. I didn't even dare to think of all the things I could ask him and learn from him. But of course it wasn't possible.

"And how..." I gestured around me, taking in the hall.

"Grutiik grutaan. Betrayer, betrayed and forgotten. I want to be forgotten again."

I leant against my pillar, deep in thought. This had turned out so different than everything I could have imagined. First the strange mask and the sanctuary, now an undead dragon who asked me to kill him. The presence in my head was gone for the moment, the skeleton looking like a lifeless heap of bones again.

The decision was not hard to made, and still I felt queasy when I pushed myself off and went through the vast, empty space and past him. But he didn't move, and the iron gate opened equally quiet as the first to an equally dark tunnel.

Just as I was about to enter, the mysterious draught I had felt before made the braziers in the hall flare up, providing at least a bit of light, though it was obscured by my own shadow. But this corridor wasn't long anyway, and only after a couple of turns I had reached another doorway. The corresponding gate was open, but the holes in the floor clearly indicated its existence.

I pressed myself against the wall outside, barely daring to breathe. The room was brightly lit and cosy with an enormous fire blazing in a masoned fireplace. Two Thalmor wizards in their characteristic robes sat opposite of each other at a small table in the back, parchments and goblets between them, speaking lowly in a language I couldn't understand. And Farkas lay curled together in a corner, his limbs twisted into a position that had to hurt intensely if maintained for longer, hands and feet bound with leather strips. And he was awake. His eyes were wide open in an expression of shock and helplessness, darting frantically through the room, his muscles strained against an unknown force. It couldn't be just these meagre bounds he struggled against, I knew him good enough to know that simple leather strips weren't able to hold him. And somehow I knew that Thalmor wizards had other means to secure a prisoner than this.

But whatever it was and although he lay only a few feet away from me, I could neither reach him nor make my presence known, the room too small and bright to move undetected. But at least he was alive. An uncontrolled twitch of his legs answered the question what held him there – one of the Altmer reacted at once to the faint movement, gave him a cruel grin and spat something that was probably an insult while bringing his hands together until magic pulsed between his palms in an eerie green glow. He released the spell on the lying body, and he became still again.

Paralysed. So simple and so effective. Neither strength nor experience or skill would help Farkas against this treatment, and considering the casual way the mage had formed the spell, they could keep it up forever.

I didn't know how strong it was and how long it would keep him sedated, but I wasn't willing to wait any longer anyway. I had already stalled far too long, and seeing the miserable state of my shield-brother let remorse well up. During my conversation with the dragon, I had nearly forgotten about him, and he was in this predicament solely because of me anyway.

There also wasn't much of a plan to make. I pulled one of the arrows prepared with frost-spider poison out of my quiver and nocked it as silent as possible. My only hope was that one of the Thalmor was dead with the first shot and that I'd be able to deal with the other and his magic in close combat as I couldn't use my Shouts in this small room. They would inevitably hurt Farkas as well, especially in that helpless state he was in.

Drawing, stepping into the doorway, targeting a slender, golden-skinned throat and letting the arrow fly was one fluid motion.

It hit, I knew it the moment I let it loose. Or it should have hit, at least. The breath of relief turned immediately into petrified shock though when it recoiled and fell to the floor as if I had shot against a solid wall.

The Altmer shot up, and only now I noticed the ward around each of them, shimmering like heated air. Magic formed in threatening coils, ready to be released. Lightning and fire, I realised absentmindedly, still standing like frozen in the door.

"You took your time, Dragonborn," one of the mer snarled. And then the first bolt hit me, making my muscles spasm and my body bounce back against the wall of the tunnel.

It was my luck, if I had been on my back I would've never gotten up in time again. Trembling fingers closed around the hilt of my mace, my only thought to get away, out of this tight darkness, away from Farkas. Gods, if I hurt him further... I needed room, to breathe and to fight.

And back in the hall, I had an ally.

I ran through the tunnel, the light in my back fading, the one in front of me becoming brighter.

"Nahfahlaar!" I yelled as I darted through the opening into the hall, hoping that he'd recognise my despair. Two pairs of steps came after me, far too close, far too fast. Lightning found me again, even behind a column.

And the dragon played dead. Dread coiled in my stomach as the mages spread out so I was deprived of every opportunity to engage them in close combat both at once. I couldn't fight one and let the other use his magic unhindered, I'd be dead before I knew it.

But I would be dead anyway. They both used lightning now that miraculously found its target, not matter what I tried. The grip on my mace became weaker, I doubled over in spasms and had increasing difficulties to regain my footing when bolt after bolt hit me, seemingly coming from everywhere, every search for cover or a hiding place futile.

_"Nahfahlaar,"_ I thought desperately, slumped against the smooth stone of a pillar, my knees threatening to give out under me, my head dizzy with pain. He had to do something. He had sent me in there.

And then he was there, back in my head, the silken softness of his voice so welcome and soothing, something I could cling to and focus on.

"Krosis, briinah." His whisper pierced into the core of my mind. "Rii Vaaz Zol."

_Betrayer._ It was my last thought before I burst into agony.


End file.
